listening to harold mumble incoherently, but he's obviously upset at something. what does it matter to me? what does any of this matter? i moved down the hall, but has anything really changed?
'is this the real life/or is this just fantasty?/caught in a landslide/no escape from reality/open your eyes/look up to the skies/and see'--so begins 'a bohemian rhapsody' by queen.
i admit i'm caught--if my brain is doing all of this, or at least covering the exits--i can't tell the difference between reality and stuff i make up. i've made up stuff before: at the western; day after day;
like now, it seems interminable. the calendar seems different, but it doesn't seem to change the final outcome.
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Does it tell you if I comment? Would you rather I didn't? Do you not really care?
Maybe tomorrow I'll have a chance in the day to call you and maybe you'll see the phone flash and maybe we can talk.
You kind of sound more like you then you have in years. Is it years? Seems it.
Tommorow Doug and I are going to Killarney Park for the annual loon count.
Yesterday, I heard Jim Kiston was allowed back home. He'd been at Penetang. I miss his sermons.
My son is 13 now. Time keeps on flowing flowing, into the future.
Love you Brope.
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