Greetings, Earth.

After a long period away roaming the open autobahns of the free world and dog faces, I’ve returned several library books and processed a multitude of exotic meats. My face is wreaking an ungodly stench but my sweet peas look a treat from the bay window.  

Sometimes the son rises far too quickly in mourning the passing of time.  His jaded leaves and their timely wilting.  His heated debates and their cold logic.  His 3/4 waltz timing and its urgency of movement.  His crumbling exterior and its broken face.  His past and his present and their perfect permanence.  His future unknown and its prefect authority.