Dark

Green grass absorbs the moonlight, but where the grass is parched straw yellow, there are bright patches. So is decay exposed amid lushness by dim light. Certain paths which thought takes are like the moon, waxing and waning, sometimes vanishing altogether, barely seen by day, but in darker hours exposing some things more clearly, by diminishing others. What I see when my thought is on those paths is that the built world is like dying grass, stands out as in relief, a vivid desiccation unable to borrow life from its surroundings. Reflection in darkness reveals more than does the false cheerfulness of day.

Hothouse

It's getting nice and cool outside, but the house is still hot. Sluggo is not happy. Since I can't spend much time with Sluggo, I've been making things tidy in here. I'm daunted. There's just too much stuff. I have a huge pile of junk mail I've never gotten around to tossing. For some reason, I've gotten onto a mailing list for a company that sells swimsuits, and another that sells cowboy clothes. I haven't worn a swimsuit in decades, and I've never worn cowboy gear (never having been forced into prostitution to survive) at all, except for those shirts with the snaps on them that I bought on sale at one of those outlet stores many years ago. Bulldogger shirts, I think they're called. I sort of liked not having to deal with buttons. But those are gone now, and I have no mind to buy more. I wonder how I got on a cowboy outfitters mailing list?