Tomorrow, another month begins (and in another place close to my heart: another season unfolds). Today is a holiday. Later, June will end. Where did half of my year go? In books and journal entries and in making my bank account content. Not happy, not sad, just content.
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For you, from Charles Bukowski's Bluebird:
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
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