Here's the hum of all your electronics and appliances murmuring at once, or something close to that.

Tonight I've decided that I'm never going to write a poem for somebody I love/care about/know again. It's never gotten me anything. Generally, they're poorly written. Not so much sentimental, but they aren't me.

I'm sordid. I write in images. Some people. They negotiate meaning, if that's even possible. Like, "Here, let's shove you this direction. Just a few steps this way. Get it? See, here's the meaning. I drew you a map."

Me? No. I'm the choose your own adventure book. My sentences short, muddy. I try to create understandings. Usually fail. Still, it's what I want to do with my life.

But not for others. Not even for myself. For the sake of storytelling. For communication. Oral or written tradition. At this point, I don't care. It's faux-happniess. It's waking up and avoiding cold tiles on your way to the bathroom. Only using the pea-sized dollop of toothpaste, brushing and feeling fresh without rinsing or mouthwash.

**

I feel like I'm finally at a point with my writing where the rationale is there. And huh, saying "rationale is there" is kind of meta-fictive. That's always intrigued me.

Ahem.

**

So, I broke a rule. Twice. Never draft players from your favorite team to a fantasy team. Greg Olsen and Devin Hester. Ruined season, here we come! Not just a nose dive, but cliff hanging then grabbing the wrong rock. Whoops, no rope. Sorry.

**

The real start of the football season is tomorrow. And you know that means?

Running.

Shower.

Six packs, lunchmeat, and surround sound.

Success.

Hey HOOOOOO, CHICAGO BEARS!