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2002-02-12 I get so afraid of the 'I think he think's that they turn into the 'must think's and everything knots itself in my throat and essentially the phone line when my fingers can't find there way around the old familiar number that dances in the shape of an 'X' criss-cross my heart. And then the phone rings of its own volition somehow. And it's you, and you're okay amazingly except for finding mice poop in a kitchen cabinet and I tell you about the trouble brewing and a childhood story pop. But really I'm not talking at all, only lending you a long extended colorfully disguised sigh, happening over and over as I listen to you. |