If Sundays are cliché, Mondays ambiguous, Tuesdays metaphorical, Wednesdays ironic and Thursdays reserved for continuity then Fridays are repetitive.
Another day. Another commute.
Sunset McMullen strolls by pushing her fur baby via stroller.
The ghosts of Becky and Keith wave as I cross their memorialized haunts.
Mother nature slowly takes hold of all of our modern compromises. The nail parlors. The bead shops. The water towers. All crumbling reminders of civilization's losing battle for relevance, all buckling under their own weight.
Day by day, the repetition of this commute outshines the relentless patience of the sun. One can only hope to embrace the incremental changes along the way as there is no haste to be found here.
Sunset, whose namesake adequately represents the cyclical nature of her existence, is wearing a white visor today. I don't recall seeing her wear a visor in any past encounters. That is not much of a shift, but I'm happy to have noticed.
And here we are, broaching another brief weekend, a break from the spinning wheels of commutes, fake projects, manufactured importance, Mitch face-offs and rehashing the details of our forthcoming adventurous challenge. What is a weekend but one skinny spoke on the wheel? But one beat of the heart?
Hand jazzing, the repetition of hand and arm movements, take any one element out of the routine and it somehow becomes more significant in its absence. Take a spoke out of a wheel and the structure becomes vulnerable. Take one beat of the heart away and it becomes the most notable beat.
Today's Jazz Hands acknowledge the prominence in vacancies.
Day two-hundred and fourteen complete.
Another day. Another commute.
Sunset McMullen strolls by pushing her fur baby via stroller.
The ghosts of Becky and Keith wave as I cross their memorialized haunts.
Mother nature slowly takes hold of all of our modern compromises. The nail parlors. The bead shops. The water towers. All crumbling reminders of civilization's losing battle for relevance, all buckling under their own weight.
Day by day, the repetition of this commute outshines the relentless patience of the sun. One can only hope to embrace the incremental changes along the way as there is no haste to be found here.
Sunset, whose namesake adequately represents the cyclical nature of her existence, is wearing a white visor today. I don't recall seeing her wear a visor in any past encounters. That is not much of a shift, but I'm happy to have noticed.
And here we are, broaching another brief weekend, a break from the spinning wheels of commutes, fake projects, manufactured importance, Mitch face-offs and rehashing the details of our forthcoming adventurous challenge. What is a weekend but one skinny spoke on the wheel? But one beat of the heart?
Hand jazzing, the repetition of hand and arm movements, take any one element out of the routine and it somehow becomes more significant in its absence. Take a spoke out of a wheel and the structure becomes vulnerable. Take one beat of the heart away and it becomes the most notable beat.
Today's Jazz Hands acknowledge the prominence in vacancies.
Day two-hundred and fourteen complete.
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