I guess I never expected to write again. Introne's got his nerve wearing his hair longer as he gets older. A stunt and a cruel trick on anyone over fifty. There are days where I just can't get up in the morning and curse myself later on for wasting the day. Call it depression or what you will. The hell hounds of February are gone with nary a dent.
I remember the chance meeting at the defunct book store and your conversations with me. Commenting on my use of the Ebola virus. Is this what passes for a poem in my fifties?
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