the mercy seat.

six strings that drew blood.

today I started blogging again. Writing is difficult for me without a deadline. I don’t notice the ebb and flow of time like a lot of people do. The hopi indians have no word for past, present, or future; everything is, because everything was, and everything that will be is, too. I can relate to this blurriness.

So this blog will be the lighthouse to this drunken sailor. Maybe I’ll see the rocks coming.