I wouldn’t call it depression. Procrastination glorifies the sense of self that I feel these days. Last night, as I returned from a poetry reading in Orange — fled is the word and I hasten to add that it wasn’t because of the people or the poets but because of inner tensions — I drove into the narrow rift zone between the foothills holding off the sprawl and the mountains. Out of that experience came this:

I put the finishing touches as I stood in the shower washing my hair. The patter of my closeted shower helped me with the sound.