At one time I would obsess over every statistic provided to me about traffic flow. Now, I no longer agonize over small attendance records: I need my sleep.
The poem grows and develops like Brendan: sudden spurts of energy, unexpected new logic falling from his mouth.
He seems to have stretched these last few days—have I said that already? Any given moment I look at him and his body transforms into a stronger state. A taller young man.
The yellow jasmine in the sie garden so far seems to survive the cold snap from earlier in the week—the arctic front which paralyzed much of the Midwest only glances at Houston. A slight lowering of temperatures into the freezing point, then a gradual return to spring-like weather.
The poem grows and develops like Brendan: sudden spurts of energy, unexpected new logic falling from his mouth. As of this moment, I have reached 2,102 fragmented entries—an intense stream of consciousness meditating on everything. Or nothing. A flow of creative commentary building on a grand scale.