First coffee of my Sunday.
Was on my way to work reading and adoring Hemingway's posthumously published The Garden of Eden for his "simple declarative sentences", his "wind and sand-scoured bones".
Was on my way to work to write out the Great Procrastination that cannot be procrastinated about for a second longer; which was when I decided to procrastinate for many seconds more by not getting off at my stop.
Instead I hopped off at the Station (such an old fashioned term IF one thinks about it) before a brief-brisk sun-blanched walk to great coffee and a sumptuous value-for-money breakfast; priceless though was that I was left alone.
So what's up with the pic? I'm waxing all lyrical about my #route102 Lawly MyCitibus stop: It's on Roodebloem street, Woodstock and drives and smoothly churns my creativity. So much so that words drip - and sometimes pour - from my jangling finger tips and mental nerve-ends..
I'm reminded of a slim volume I purchased years ago at a Waterstones in London, and still have, of 'Poems on the Underground'.
Last night the wind hustled and rattled me with the litter down Greatmore street. Tonight, right now, it's tearing at the building and shredding dark.
I'm safe, but my mind's in another part of town.
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