I think I am thinking too much. The flood gate that held in and held up this grief is lifting, slowly, and in its wake: thinking. A rush so fast, when I wake in the morning, I hear its swooshing and pulsing, traveling from dreams to the day. Dreams filled with corridors and missed meetings, days suddenly steady-paced and interesting again.

IMAGE: Ann, Thinking, with Flowers by John Bratby.

One thought on “Thinking

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