15.03.02 – Friday
Most mornings, when I wake, I stumble to the kitchen to make myself an espresso. This has, by now, become a habit so ingrained that the very smell of strong coffee causes me to feel as though I were wearing pajamas and had just rolled out of bed. It’s a comfortable feeling. If I were virtuous, I would refrain from such self-indulgence; but I figure my heyday shall soon pass and no more shall I be able – to say nothing of the will – to pursue my pleasures without stint.
This cloudy morning
I sat beside the window
and watched as time passed.
Soon turning away,
I return to idle things
and neglect all else.
What did Mallarmé say about prose?
A metrical bewilderment, an awe-inspiring complication. Alexandrines. Cretics. Alexandrian critics. The ravings of Cassandra. With disheveled hair.