Possessions

I love surrounding myself with bric-a-brac despite my zennish poetry.

I have never written of my immediate environment except in passing. I sit at a desk in a room where most of the pieces of furniture are orphans.

Driving is the time when I mourn for my decaying vision.

I mark passages in the books I read for copying later in a bound red book.

I don't mind if you call me a bum. You can even call me a damned-old-bum. I'm asking such a simple thing. Forgive my negleanance. Thank you. No I haven't staked any claims yet, but I have found an untunéd piano with all the accouterments. Write gm 2/c after my name now. It has something to do with a promotion. That's what they tell me, anyhow.

I'm not sure what to call them: they have broad, square toes and zippers up the inner sides. Beige calf-skin, subtly crinkled, covers the outside; lamb wool suits up the inside.

My keyboard is a mess, particularly on the left side. The letter "e" has completely worn through.

Being asthmatic doesn't make me a wimp. Being depressive doesn't make my views -- as long as I am aware when I am spiraling into it and trust those closest to me who have educated themselves about what I have.