Sitting in my living room, the windows splayed open to the trees, oaks, whatevers, palms dancing in the tropical wind born from Tropical Storm Cindy. It plays like a living canvas of grey and rain before my eyes. Well, I guess we’re in for it…we’ll be on the Eastern side, where there is the most rain…had to secure my plants, blue chair, and other things outside. Nursing a Manhattan, planning to sleep in the recliner where I can keep an eye on things…

Nevertheless, contemplating…chastity. Candlelight, all the candles are poised and ready to be lit, matches nearby, hurricane lamp with the oil ready…matches ready to grab…you, you, what would you do here now. Would it have to be important, validated, somehow received a seal of approval your sister would approve of, or would it just be for the sake of God’s sake? Pray it is the latter. Wind is picking up, palms outside the Ernest Hemingway Room doing their arabesques and stretches. Would it have to be something that would pass the questionable approval of critics who have not yet lived as you have, or would your opinion, your heart, your soul and its voice be enough? Hasn’t that always been the question; hasn’t that always been the question you have missed by those you felt you shouldn’t stand up to, perhaps because, it appalls you, that your innermost inclination would be to knock them flat, send them to hell? Where, perhaps, in the grand scope of your true destiny, they belong…and you would stand on the mountaintop, a free man, chained to nothing but the essence of your own soul and true desires…..

Sad, isn’t it? That it isn’t so. And the tropical wind doth blow…

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