Reset Fifty, Day Fifty-Eight

[rejectomorph]

If days keep going by like this I'll lose all track of them. I recall waking at Saturday's dusk and thinking it was Sunday morning, but Hopper was nowhere to be found among the muddy furnishings of my brain. The blinds covering the window slowly drained of their light, and then I knew the time of day, but the day itself remained a mystery until I looked at a calendar.

How different it was when I woke this morning, the actual Sunday light leaking through and me knowing when and where I was. So rare anymore, to have such certainty. I actually felt, if not smart, at least not comatose. Since then I've let the hours run by and barely noticed until realizing I had an appointment to keep. No, not with death. With LiveJournal. Oh, it's finally actually Sunday, and I'm not surprised. Just a bit sad that there's not a Sunday paper anymore. But at least there's this:



Sunday Verse

I Am In Need Of Music

by Elizabeth Bishop


I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.