i sometimes forget how much i like words.
but when i start a book that knows how to use them,
i often can’t get more than a page without writing one down.
or just writing in general.
days like this remind me of those lost moments you don’t know what to do with.
they creep up on you.
sly. in their sneak.
and before you know it, you forget yourself. forget the world.
and remember the inevitable timelessness that also can’t help its sneaking.
suddenly, you remember you love words.
the way sorrowful songs sound more real than non.
the dance of syllables that dribble on every piece of paper.
it’s cool days of warm suns.
with a cliched understanding of forgetting what you thought you knew.
lack of nostalgia.
and a sense of wander.
to what end.
i’m not quite sure.