sharpened at least a hundred pencils on one of those nostalgic crank sharpeners till my whole arm is numb yet look!--I can still write. Got my steadily growing hair bunched together in a rubber band so tight my head throbs in concentric circles--annoying. Outside the sky teases me with a handful of rain and clouds black and thunder cracking starting right above my head and echoing out across the land. You know it looks like my heart after my self-indulgent passion play last night -- dark and ringing in my ears. Thankful for the grace that blows it away never to be seen again--until of course my mind clouds and boom! there it is again. Then the same old routine. It got old long ago, ages ago so that I feel old. Older than my years belie to the family and friends around. Though some nights I can see that some folks do know my real age--people on the street, of the street; the pusher who pushes, the career rehabs askin' for bus money, the used-up girls hopin' to give (and get) some favors. They are the ancient ones, deceived and discarded. Thinking of 'em makes me mad and misty-eyed both. Enough of that, I know I've got to do something before it all makes me explode in an enormous mess of bilge.