I make noises. I live so I write. Each day is a song.  It’s tempo and pitch, it can be slowed down and sped up, harmonized or made dissonant. One note, many unison intervals, is not music. Or is it? Is not diversity necessary for music, but too much diversity is too dissonant.

I wake now with the morning birds, only this is a long morning and I have hours to go before I wake, and then I will have miles to go before I sleep, only to again have hours before wake. I do believe I can slow down time. These last few weeks have been very slow. Like if you watch the clock it ticks drudgingly, knowing it is being scrutinized and cannot cut corners.

I watch these days and I feel that I live whole lifetimes before I sleep, and when I watch my breath before I close my eyes, I wonder if I might not be so sad that they not open again, if not for all the joy and wonder I feel when they do, as I am provided with a whole new world and a fresh set of rules to set out to play again, and I am once more an awe and energy child in the morning, a hungry young man before lunch, a man in long and committed love in the afternoon, and elderly in the night, breathing slow, content anytime now to close my eyes and contribute my energy back to the dark, so that it may brighten the light for those who remain behind.