I can't put a finger on the feel of this yet, but I know it will be different.
Different good, different bad? Maybe different in that I am calmer and I feel more a part my skin, and my thoughts are reins in my hands.
And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window panes; 25 There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30 Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.
Maybe there will be enough time, though if there is, it's wrapped in discrete packaging and buried at the bottom of my lost luggage.
Emails to write and resumes to tweak and errands to run and the drudgery of academia to attend to, and now and again, I wonder what exactly Prufrock was talking about and when I'll stop using indecipherable foreign films as means of escapism.
Gray skies are blankets over my eyes.