as I watch the fog roll
silently, in waves,
across the green,
moving fluidly through
trees, standing tall
perhaps longer than I
have been here, on this
ground, this dirt, this
earth.
Reflection comes in waves,
itself, spurred by these
arbirary moments designated
as change, or more appropiately
defined nowadays by the
lack of change,
blood burning for something
something
something.
Happy Birthday to me.
11/23/99
Sam Phillips : holy DHTML, Batman!.[next]