Type.

Type.
Yes.
I would dance for you with my toungue,
with fingertips.

Sounds like a nice Tango.

With a breath.
Si.

Under the wide window
facing the western sun,
I watch time slow down,
as the light fades.

Yes
Time,
death,
tranquility.

Mr. Nasty on the fly.

Lol!

Wonderful.

Ms. Tasty.
In death is life,
there is life in death,
rebirth for another generation,
progress.

My candle is burning out,
slowly.

Mine too,
too.

Over my shoulder.
It sings a song of love and memory,
of paths taken and discarded.

In a tune of shards of glass,
I hear the whistle
of the train my youth took.
Up this mountain.

Yes.
A diary mountain,
there is beauty in that.

I can see the ridge close ahead.
The crest drains the last drop of pity from me.
Filling cups of snow driven anger and love,
in equal measures.
So as not to displease.
Yet the bronze glint of the horizon comforts me.
A sailboat in the sea of inner serenity,
in my moments of clarity.
I feel the breeze of angels,
as they gather,
as they swarm,
across my heart.
Today,
today,
immesureably,
I surrender.


You always make me cry.

I'm sorry.

No,
no sorry.

I didn't mean to do that.

It is a heart thing,
nothing to be sorry about.
I love the things you write
but this you just wrote
reminds me of a dream I once had,
while sleeping.

I had a man on a sled,
a very old man.
I had to take him a long way on that sled
and while doing that
he told me about his life.
He had been a carpenter
and he told me about all the cabinets and furniture
he had made.
I could see them,
pictures,
the most beautiful things I have ever seen,
everything handmade.
Intarsia
A special kind of wood.
We went a long way,
went,
then we came to a shore,
a river.
I followed him onto a boat and said goodbye,
and I went my way.
As he sailed away with that boat.


Your writing reminded me of that dream...
very beautiful it was.

A very nice story,
yes.

Very special.

Si.