Am I like a gray man, or more like a ghost? Folding up all my phases, and fading out almost. Took against chances, and squandered a day: fumbling facts–the place and time, the dates and names. So leave me a hand up, or leave it alone. Procrastinate! What’s gone is dead, what’s dead is done. I move slowly (I know), but moving slowly is a kind of moving. And I don’t regret the paths I’ve made or the years I spent doing nothing, growing nothing in a place where every face is old. Back to the milk door–the same house, the same walk, the same chore. If I’m bored, there isn’t anyone blame. Wasting wasteland, crumbs of pavement, partial projects put off to vacancy. If you’re wondering (I’m not), but wondering at all is a wonder to me. Do you know what I mean?
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