Know when to fold 'em...

Begrudged rumination is my bête noir, I swear. I’d rather flit through life blithesome or at least fake it till I make it. Sigh… the well laid plans of mice and men and all that jazz indeed.

Grand plans were and are explicitly not my savoir vivre. Darn the grand bit, them blasted plans have in perpetuum dwelt in the lower echelons of my peregrination.

Perchance it’s the fault in my stars or the genuine dope that the ruling Neptune of my Piscean star sign is farthest from the sun. Apt that. I’m equally removed from here and now.  

The current monomania is the desolate landscape, unrequited wasteland… to borrow brazenly from T S Elliot:

“I have heard the key

Turn in the door once and turn once only

We think of the key, each in his prison

Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison”

Reiterates the everlasting trepidation that the prison bound by gossamer strands will be a forever Achilles heel. And what of that?

The lack of sentiment there and its paucity which demands the change that must occur seems like a strange blue hue of a celestial body of what children once believed to be made of cheese.

Yeah yeah I’m an aper and a shameless one at that.

So yeah… for once I’ve schemed a blueprint to this odyssey and the Greek goddess Moira decrees an ambush via a pathogen.

Downing white Moscato furtively is shoddy yet emboldens the pen I wield brazenly. Hic!

A tribute to Kenny Rogers and a lesson I’m ending this lachrymosal musing:

“You've got to know when to hold 'em

Know when to fold 'em

Know when to walk away

And know when to run

You never count your money

When you're sittin' at the table

There'll be time enough for countin'

When the dealin's done”

…hic!