Lo and behold, here I am at the alter
of drinking and existential writing and
already I am lost for words having
paused and lost the next fantastic line.
It was something to do with the metaphor
of a sleeveless vest - perhaps composing
in the sartorial comfort-zone where
habit and familiarity are a substitute muse -
yet the idea escaped me like a song forgotten
but with insinuating pangs of
recall ultimately just a sound.
If I could finger-pick the language from
expertise and reading a score, then I'd
continue, but this is just improvisation.