So much to do, and so much to say, I might
intone, as I've been away. But
when you've been so far afield not
much the memory can yield except
to lurch and grind to a halt. It's just
my brain. It's not my fault. I've run
wild and fast and free, and scarce
remember who is me. Though here
I sit, both full and empty, and wonder
what this year will bring, full of hurt
or joys a plenty; will I cry or will I sing?
Current Location: |
elsewhere |
Current Music: |
trams in vienna |