the rinse is silver, the first pot is gold.
why do the young leaves have gray hair?

i don't know where it went. i don't know what primordial urge it is.

winter is rough outside of the sf climebubble. there is frost. there is wind. there is glass on the road. there are no clearly marked bicycle lanes.
if i can see past it there are tigers and springs. there is a suit of dwarf-forged chainmail in a nearby cache.

when i contemplate life i'm forced to wonder how far gone i am. some colors i cannot see anymore but i can't say i miss them. they've been replaced with another spatial dimension. at times the sensory adjustment is novel and exciting but it is a lot of work i am not very inclined to do consistently.
i don't want to party. i don't want money. i don't want a car or a house. i don't want my team to win the war or the bowl.
i guess it is a problem that i am too lazy to actively appreciate my clear fortune. not a tragedy i suppose but i am not as special as i used to be.
maybe a dozen earthmen have earned real statues whereas wealthy diplomats are as numerous as rats and beloved leaders outnumber the strange animals their delectables come from. clever students are just sand.
it is something backwards like this that actually might inspire me.

everywhere i go conifers are covered in snow. the ones that were caught off guard are already buried.
in fact i like the quiet cold and the tracks remind me of dusty shelves. spring is a strange concept.

just read about raytheon making a weapon that can knock the wind out of someone at a distance. amazing that people who design, build, use these things can sleep at night.