Tomorrow will be another day.
The sun will rise and set; the weather will be cold and rainy;
and the dog will bark, lonely, on the street. Tomorrow will be
another day. Tomorrow, my grandmother will still have cancer;
tomorrow, I will get myself lost in a bookstore somewhere, far out
north, where the wind weeps in the trees and the shadows fold
like golden wings. My mind is folded. I am jaded. I am happy
with the way things are; I am happy being me. I am happy falling,
being the loner, the drifter, the McDonald's cashier. I drift alone
in a hot air balloon, reaching on a tethered line. I am nothing. I am
me. I am worry.