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the white table

The days are not long. The nights are short. Guitars are hiding in cases, with scraps of paper tucked inside. The pen is full. There is a fresh notebook, with creamy pages. The little white desk is in the middle of the living room, a cascade of receipts and laundry perched on it.

I clean it off, have lunch as it stares back at me. This focal point, this fulcrum where my thoughts become real, this cheap folding table from Ikea. It is familiar, and patient.

Mad World (a scary song)

We kicked around a few Townes Van Zandt songs last week, but somehow this song touched the right nerve. Words of caution resonated with a 10 year old when asked "how was last year"? This is the world we live in.









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