There’s a digital bird on the power line outside my window. Someone changed the chirping algorithm over the weekend. My scattered brain misses connections with my fingers. Spelling’s off, chunks missing. Every cell pleading Don’t Go this morning. Find Your Inner Idle.
Comcast wants 43 bucks or else. Or Else what? You’ll stop the incessant drivel you jam through the pipe forcing me to desperately go the The Guide to soften my incredulity?
I love the sloppy gray outside. The piano has that come hither look. There's a song to finish in the basement. Work will have to wait for me today.
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