the garden was dry and dead and red dust made spirals in the sand

sleep has a sickle and it keeps swinging at my head and i think i've nearly lost all my hair now.
The nature outside my window is grey, green and the occasional human colour.
Some blues guy is banging out a litany of life, it goes back to louisiana,
tins shacks and an old guitar, said he taught himself how to play, keeping his family up all night.
He's kinda good, goes by the name of buddy guy.
But i've gotta go, down the way, got to get ready for the second coming.
Four thirty eight post meridian so it ain't far away.
Drop me a line if you feel like it.
So long, cavajerro.
Rore