These days I live on the side of a hill with
only a shovel as a guide. I've burrowed in,
instead of going up or down, deciding to
just dig through sideways,. The shovel has
become quite handy to me. I don't know
how I'd be without it and I know I wouldn't
be able to make one - tempered steel and
all that - that would withstand the rigors
of hitting these rocks. Sometimes here
the sun just blinds me, but I take shelter.
It's a nice place; there's a small brook
which runs below me, though far below,
actually. I sometimes see the glint : that
sunlight I mentioned, hitting the water.
It's not that I get bored, though lonely
perhaps would work. A word, mere
non-presence, like things forgotten.
Nooks, pencils, satchels; all that
was long ago. Now it's nothing
but a slavish pile of space. Yes,
strange concept, but that's about
it : slavish pile of space.