August 18th nearing lunchtime

Spending the day in the sun, producing nothing but mantric thoughts. The band on my thumb testifying to futility: a trophy without a shelf or meaning. The flowers in the garden grow high, high enough to hide everything that's going on from view. The vegetables are growing, their leaves becoming rough and crisp in the August sun. August. A time of over-robust growth and banality, of patient expectation and disappointment, dread and resolve. Everything's coming and ending here. My birthday closing it all up with a neat bow, unwanted and tiring. Can i swallow up a day i couldn't care less about? The sun, the great sign in the sky, watching me, thinking about me, pressing upon me.
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I'd like to colour in the boundaries of voice. It's based in deep browns, earth, but shaded with greens, and surrounded by tones of fire: sun. Moving blue along its edges, urging it forward, (from swerve of shore to bend of bay) somewhere that no one knows where it is going.
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On his bicycle, he rides along the stubble of the bullet-ridden wall from the night before, blood now dried into ancient paint to be forgotten. He heard the sounds but: didn't dare look. Imagination enough to prevent sleep for a few days. Can't think of it now; have to work, somehow i have to work. Instead, he looks downward, watching the sidewalk, all the familiar cracks and dips, how the weeds grow profusely in that one crack along the wall; where the concrete disintegrates into gravel in the shape of a maple leaf, here the name scribbled when the concrete was just poured: "Lukacs." Every morning, seven days a week he sees that name: "Lukacs." Then the turn in the street, slowing to duck down under the low branch. Work, forgetting, consuming myself into work.
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