Senseless words rolling off tip of fingers and tongue

And in thick words we breathe, are tied, bound to thin-pressed legalities and responsibilities to rope twine together, roll mauve and blind green, drinking in premature gestures of sun and spring. Sung in high praise for the price of choice, price of freedom, price of picking the path of lukewarm resistance with no cost-reducing enzyme or ATP coupling.

Again this looks like a year with no spring. I coil in repulsed anticipation for the first hint of summer threatening to gorge down even this, this, relatively-tame albeit month-too-early, so-called spring. Like the onrush of another side-along exponential experience, though I don't too-much-mind that one at all. I anticipate.

This future.

Reveling in its endless possibilities, and reconsidering again what I once dismissed as impractical impossibilities. Drop an idea in my lap, and then totally leave. That is the way to turn a blind-due-to-stubborn me around. No bullheaded nagging insistence will intrigue or work magic like that. That was the newness. That was his secret.

That, and I was entirely willing to be swayed.