I refuse to wash my clothes.
Like a lover I want that smokey smell to permeate my skin. Never letting me forget that fleeting magic.
I have spent my days longing for something that by its very definition can only be temporary.
Any longer and the mundane violence of daily logistics would once again create the Real. Shattering our complicity in the time out of time.
So now I sit, knee deep in reality, day dreaming.
Of twenty hour days, of icy river water and the fiendish fury of fiddle players with nothing to lose.
Of dancing on broken ankles, and the dark lust of moonlit musings.
Ultimately, I am haunted by that wholeness that only comes once year when the best of friends and the oldest of lovers gather under those red wood trees and scrub our souls with tunes only the damned could love.