Love is like a crimson sunset on a Sunday night near the time of full moon
light. We know little, but it is. So something we just must accept. As
seagulls flying in to racing horses with the newspaper's camera men taking
photos to land on the front morning page of the news. Shaking waves and
tides, heaven knows. Even the holly Pope died. There is so much. With the
re-runs of the re-runs. Still there no enough a time to pay the mounting
bills. As the studio technical adviser says, we must re-play that piece of
the last puzzle. Until it fits in as a pea in a pod. You know, I pod, we
pod, we pod along. In this world with only an apple on my desk, cut in to
four. Four better or worse, it's just a micro soft here in time. No salt on
my eggs, I'm driving, with my coffee in my hands, one sugar, to the sounds
of seagulls by the river side
Kind regards,
Keep on, keeping,
In time and health,
And space
Sam www.MrMusicman.com
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