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Tea and bagel, as always. I'm very, very sleepy. Staring at the train walls, I notice one of those "Poetry In Motion" things. It's a poem called Exile by Ellen Bryant Voigt. These are the first two lines: "The widow refuses sleep, for sleep pretends
Wow. That's just so perfect. No extra words or syllables. Just one round idea shown in its simplicity. Someday, I'll write like that too. Daddy's reading The Green Mile and I peek over his shoulder. I have my own book, but I'd rather read with him. He even tilts the book toward me when I can't see. He doesn't read as fast as I do, but only because Russian is his native language. (I can read Russian, just at a first grade level.) Soon Daddy's gone, and I am too. |