crowe - Journal

Four decades?

Nothing different.

Four years?

Drink fine wine, ski Chamonix, walk Montmartre under a summer storm, golf Ireland, make love, read Camus, friends, family, write.

Four months?

Make love, read Camus, friends, family, write.

Four weeks?

Friends, family, write.

Four hours?

Family, write.

Four minutes?

Write.

Grey night. A heavy promise of rain. The first clean scent of spring. Slivers of televised light split the dark. Mediocrity has the remote.