A beautiful woman has awoken and left for work. I am left with a cup of English tea, looking out across the snow-capped roofs of Schwabing, the blue oninion of St. Joseph's prodding the gray sky. Seven floors below, cyclists make there way carefully along the frozen terrain of Turkenstrasse. The plant, which recently has had a steady diet of weissbier, leans hopefully towards the open window. But there will be no rain today. The fresh air coming off the city is cold and dry. Somewhere a garbage truck grumbles in the streets below; it is Monday morning, but still sacred as any Sabbath.

I will catch a train in the next hour or so to the country. A friend which I have not yet seen this year awaits me. There in a garden that sits on a slow river, I will eat and drink and read and sleep and breathe mountain air.

What have I done? What I am doing? What are my dreams? Am traversing the distance that separates me from them? Is there even a distance; could this be my dream? What if I never move a stone from here to there, never punch a window through certain metaphysical walls, but am content with not having done so? Am I really free?
This tea is cold.

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i broke through. i am now a moblog.

An aside- my blog erased all the comments. If some one who loves me reads this could you please go through and leave some words so it doesn't look as though no one ever gave me a shout back. Cosmetics.

Speaking of products usually designed for womem, a girl gave me a pair of tights. I know I have seen well-packaged male dancers prancing about on stage with these things, but I can not help but feel I am delving into some deviant behavior here, that perhaps I am beginning the slow downward spiral into women's underwear.
However, they are warm beneath my pants in the dead of winter on my bike through the snow and so on.
Exasperrating the situation- I just received a copy of Robbie Williams greatest hits, and I like it. What is happening to me?

Discovered the joy of careening dead-on into snow banks. The bike sticks and you, the fun-loving rider go flying over the bars, into the snow of course, which is soft, seemingly. But mind the frozen manure and the buried stones. See nose, figure 1a.

Just thought this was interesting...

a writer writes. i am not a writer. i am some one who wants to write a best-selling book, but i can not even keep up this pathetic little blog.. am i a chronic underachiever? should i get a new hobby?
the answer is a resounding no. I will try harder. i will do better. so help me, god.