The beginning of a sonnet - there were a few thoughts that should occur freely. Making me to create the original. To type without having to see what has been typed. Erroneous these letters as they may seem. Typing with the same old habits. Habituated to the keyboard of the computer. To get the words in coherence is a tough ask. It seems that I am left with mostly errors but no warnings. I have been so old school in what I have been able to type.

With a swamp in front of me in this somewhat nature friendly place, I type with so much enthusiasm that I wish I had for the usual gig I am supposed to work upon. Somewhat mundane the digital era may seem like. With every information at our fingertip, there is very little effort for the nuances of understanding the world. Knowledge for one has been taken for granted. I wish if there were more than just what is apparent. Lost cause, lost desire, lost freedom, lost dreams and unknown. All there is to admire is lost. Rediscovery of the forgotten and the withered shall keep me awake even in this delirious state of affairs. Distant chattering will always make me worry about myself. Even the canine which slept peacefully beside me finds itself awake. Awake from the afternoon slumber. The mocktail arrives. A bamboo strawed glass filled with old water and a concoction of secret ingredients. Some lemon slice and ice. I wonder what is that floating thing in it. Plant parts. I am so sloppy so eager to spill the beans all over me. The drink seems like a dampener. Was expecting it to be more sugary, more sweet. The dopamine hit matters so much for this being of mine. As the tape ribbon runs out of its color I must stop this rambling of mine.