Well, it is November already. This sweet melody is playing, like an old gramophone record from decades gone past my ephemeral existence of yonder. It has been a while since I've pieced a piece at this time of the day, perhaps a year or more. There isn't anything in particular that I'd like to write about. Maybe it's something to do with, say, pohucussing. They constantly flitter about, but let's just say that I have been thinking about islands and how you can't really be marooned on one. It's like this, I suppose it might not strike you immediately, but it is like being wise, but, without wisdom. It's strange, this serenity that has descended upon me. I'm sure I will drift seamlessly into that realm now; where a stone dropped in the water creates ripples that echo through the walls of silence. Soon, little boy, that cloud you see will drift away.
- Local Hero
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