Kyrie, eleison

Father, forgive me, for indulging in silence and in solitude.


My days are layered. One day is heaped upon another in an endless stream. Swirling currents from years gone by flow through them.


Those principles, and the countless conversations we had which bound them together, form an imaginary, well-thumbed book.

The matter of socks

I like to wear socks whose bona fides are intact. You might think its strange, but I have an aversion to that horrible little thread in cheap socks that worms its way between my toes.

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