The Hearts of Men; the Soul of Angels

Its Thursday and its been one of those weeks that lasts a month. The minutes crawl by with the speed of cold molassass on a frozen country morning in the hills of the heartland. My words fight inside my skull like trapped angry popcorn springing and exploding in every direction at all times. I dont know if that is good or bad; on the other hand, I dont know why that matters enuf that I should ask such a question at each crux of the road. And here I sit above the popcorn staring and marveling at the same time of its repeated strains against an impassable barrier. Outside I hear the sirens of a fire engine going to rescue the helpless. Who are the helpless? Was it their destiny or their choice? I dont know; but the popcorn crashes into the dome and then is pelted back to the surface too hot for it to survive and too tired to spring again. The mitosis of thought is like that; with the end of every thought is the birth of another. What magic makes such things so?

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Bruce Springstein in my ears attempts to distract me from time seeming to run in reverse. I am listening one of the truely great songs of his bountiful career. Some might argue that music has color; my response would be does life? Are we not all stings of the same chord of a song we think we determine the notes of running down its chorus with few ideas of the notes ahead or when the song ends....? Nonetheless...."Philadelphia;" what a great song with incredible lyrics. The deep haunting of a soul bass draws you into the muse of a story so delicate its deadly and the truth leaks out into yesterday's memories and today's tradgedies....


Philadelphia
I was bruised and battered and
I couldnt tell What I felt
I was unrecognizable to myself
I saw my reflection in a window
I didnt know my own face
Oh brother are you gonna leave me
Wastin´away
On the streets of philadelphia
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