Was postmodern living really so bad with its postmodern lampshades,  access to the worldwide internet’s daft shenanigans, the great show of hip hop, happiness, high-risk mortgages, fields of discourse plowed  with ultimate unassailable truth?  You are a thread in the fabric while the needle behind you weaves or is woven into the greater piece.  Time has a way of doing the dishes, the throbbing insect about to pop in the heat, it is you. Don’t bust  too soon, there is much to see, much left of you though you  are bothered by it, this branching out of options, river ways into plangent,   brilliant light where intention flows.                                You have your plans but the world was not made for it. There is sense, gladly, no matter that it isn’t exact, it is sincere (sometimes) and you are OK with that, or not, and time goes on.  Either way you are reclining on a sofa for a moment thinking of all this  in a body that is aroused with grief for all the things you could have …