Woosh.

I have no 'la' today.

Oh, I had lots of loverly things to say last even, but I have quite forgotten. Today it is to work again. Today it is also for the Mother to descend upon me, albiet this will help my pantry and my overdraft fees no little bit. It will be especially fun, as I am going to a Maundy Thursday service this even. My mom, who reveres the Great Spirit, will LOVE that.

I am looking over old poetry now. Someone said that true poets burn all their juvenalia, one day.

I suppose I ought to, but I can't bear it, no matter how bad much of it is. One reminds me far too much of Eponine, though I wrote it long before I knew who Hugo was. Well... an excerpt, perhaps...

Picking my pale way through brown-fogged streets,
Whistling and dousing out the lights;
I hear the candles hiss and sputter out,
A woman singing,
And a nightengale:
I think of you.

My face is dirty; my face and hands are black.
You take them up and kiss them, it's ok.
To make like it is nighttime in the day
If the lights are doused and shutters closed and barred,
And clothes are hot and heavy.

The rest of it I s'pose I could fit to the little gamine, though I really don't know if she's talking about Marius, Cosette, or Monteparnasse.

Ah, Monty. My dear little Claude. I shall have to speak more of him later.

Not sure if it's ironic or not, but I really need a bath now.

<<agé chose>>

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