It was 3am with nothing to do. So I turned out of bed and played Indian music on old vinyl. Something I picked up at a yard sale. I ironed my clothes with a rusting iron that slid steamy and slow against a blue shirt I should have made into rags long ago.
I was at peace, the best I'd felt in months, but I became worried the music was too loud. I folded my clothes and put them away. It was now 4am with nothing to do. So I slept and dreamt of India and their fine cotton and wished I were there. Well dressed and alive, my old rags turning into ragas, my heart singing with something to do.
LIFE OF A POET - JOHN BUCHANAN
4 hours ago