good morning.

lately

Today I was going to write a poem about Chuang Tzu and his butterfly dream, but found out that Li Po beat me to it roughly 1,281 years ago.  Maybe in another life I was the pen knife used to sharpen the quill with which the poem was written.  Maybe I still am the pen knife.  However, it’s difficult to convince oneself of such an honorable position as I, in reality, just spent a considerable amount of time marveling, once again, at elaborate dollhouse miniatures of meat.

“Who can tell the end of the endless changes of things?”