...no water in, no water out...
...no drinking water, no toilet, no shower nor bath nor neither sink, gettin' nastier by the hour beginning to stink...clothes funkier, dishes running out. Bitter cold outside, very cold in; all in all typical foils of winter life in the great Granite State - none too bothersome although yea verily twouldst welcome a clean set of clothes and buffed up body which would do wonders for my sinking psyche.
Meanwhile I still essentially have no legitimate complaints about life; most of my troubles I brought down on myself, i. e. my remaining teeth are driving me 'round the bend, it is true. Weak, loose, painfully sensitive to hot or cold - indeed the rush of my babbling breath rattles them in my aching head like so many loose Chiclets, but this problem is the end result of a youth spent idly and insouciantly noshing away on peanut butter cups instead of broccoli and basically it's too late to do anything about it. Complaint legitimacy: negative findings, denied.
Then of course the perpetual plaint of having no dough (doe) but that is also a self-wrought dilemma brought on by the ignominy of having no so-called job and no job = no $$. Actually I do have a job, you're looking at it, but it doesn't pay much and I'm willing to endure that because of the huge freedom NFTD grants me from having to actually go out & work. I live with less is all, unlike the halcyon days (daze) working at The Dump, when on most any given day I could whip out a twenty, lo these many years ago, and buy a round. Legitimacy of complaint number two: threadbare proof, complaint denied.
All my sordid past ganging up and slamming into me with a portmanteauful of complaints - if only I had, if only I hadn't; I wished I did, I wished I didn't...if only, if only...if, if...IF!
Too late to be bothered by all that baggage from the great lost beyond. There's no sense of relief in letting the past roll over you and screw you down, there's no relief - nor sense - in being held captive to your history; what's done is done, forge ahead, I think as I stand before The Fool In The Mirror, hairbrush in hand flicking away at the few remainng hoary wisps backlit by MPB...
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