phil there was once a stream I would sit and watch. That stream completely captivated me, I needed no other thoughts. I could watch it and be interested in nothing else. I have taken that stream with me, I feel it trickling again, just as real as it was before it became a memory.
Each part of that stream was as different from itself as I was from it, or any animal that wandered by.

Later people came and rebuilt the stream, throwing concrete and wire; digging a oath for it to go through. Now parts of it topple and swirl like falls, but I don't miss how it was. I never had it, it never was any different, not one moment to the next had it ever been the same stream. Each drop of water came from a different source. A hose poured over a garden, rain drops from a tree, a spring far away, and drains for people's kitchen sinks.
That water was probably not safe to drink and I knew that even as a kid. I hardly ever got wet in it since I only visited in the colder part of autumn when there were few plants around. My cat died near that stream, and it has never died.
Nothing floated very well in it. I've always had dreams of putting a swing out where it used to be, one of those bench type swings, but it would be in the back of someone's yard.
I hardly ever go back there anymore, I figure it just might scare people, so I walk into town, that scares people too though...
nomatter Jack Handey
Sometimes I think I would be better off dead. No wait, not me, you.
marked . 031023
s;dlf; sdfdsf very nice, phil. 031027
what's it to you?
who go