Ray Bradbury writes a little like me (duplicate)

I write by hand and copy into formless print.

When next we meet, I wanna know the banal:

How’s your mum, still strugglin’ along? Why do mums struggle, but mothers rarely do?

What do you have to learn this year? Do you have to learn? What have you learned?

How are your family? Do you fit together like layers of pasta in lasagne and slide away when cut? When pressed, do you move closer?

Do you wake and ponder or put off sleep awhile, nestling slowly into your dream spirit world?

How often do walls, (and) the walls now you see, now talk to you? And how often do you solemnly reply?

“To take up arms against a sea of troubles” and create more: War is the Hydra.

This weekend coming. How will it differ from that just past? Does the thought of it raise a fond smile, a toast to the [ ] experience?

Do you step outside yourself when you step inside?

Is the world a little warmer, calmer for the smiles we share? For the plane of serene understanding on which we glide, collide and …bounce, to start around again like on the crazy-chaired dodgem?

Does your daily routine ever shatter like sugar glass; sweet but brittle? No support. Not what it was. But the fragments are those on which you might feed. And do, devouring yourself to preserve yourself. A little, at least. And when the now is no more and Hunger gnaws as ever it must and so does, do you return to the facade, ready to shatter and feed to save the yourself that maybe never was; maybe was the first meal?

If I should, then maybe I must.

And today you walk. And walked. Were you quick, distracted, unseeing? Or were you feeling the rub of your hose on your shoe, the edge of your toes? And what did you carry? Did it work? Did it fulfil?

Satisfaction. Does this grow like an over-fed stomach?

Do you see the dawn of the day? Is it new? Or a double, ad infinitum? Does the cut of the air open you to where and what you never see , (perhaps) never want to see? London Town, Downtown. Is discovery a companion on that journey? And do you invite him in at that end you choose to reach so that you yourself never do? That first cup of cocoa. Why so late? or so latte? Do you ever gibber and scream inside as you become the Jelly Monster? And the bread you eat. How far has it come? Did you carry it with you, true as you know it will be?

Are you a good girl? The Good Girl. (No Good Boy?...?) How can you hold what is never yours? Never yours to hold, but no-one else’s?

And do you feel a day, the days, calling? Do you see the verdant deliquesce into the mulch of old age and senescence even though we say it knows not? Save instinct saves. As somehow it always does: born with a self-defence we have lost.

I see, you see.

And tell me of the letters you have sent and received. Did you read with your hands, your nose, your imagination? Of what I care not, tho’ who would be nice to know.

And in the middle of ----------------------. Did you start to think? Or after? And when you close your eyes, what do you remember of that middle?

(No repose).

Tell me of your time, for I have asked.