Thonet, Vienna Sausages, and P G Woodhouse

Here's my dream job:
Bertie is Playing piano in the corner of my retrofitted industrial loft studio.
Goodnight. The floors are hardwood.
I am making miniature Thonet chairs with Vienna sausage links.
People pay copious amounts of money for them.
I am married. We are happy.

Then I wake up.
My wife smiles but is still asleep.
With My sad forehead against the window,
I relive that point in the morning
when one's mind begins the process of comprehension.
I feel the surreal hyper-Aptivity [sic] that brings us to watch,
as if slowing it's motion for my sake,
a cyclist collapse, slide, roll, and stop.
before i blink. before i open my mouth.

But regardless of my mood or temperament,
time moves on at what, at the very least,
seems to be a consistant speed.
Time throws its hat.
Age rolls its snowmen, us.
We cannot slow or stop it.
We grow older, old, then die.
and if to resist is to piss into the wind,
then how eagerly do i wet my own ankles.

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