Friday, February 22, 2013


Three hundred and eighty nine. Blind Willie Johnson.

I had a friend once when I lived in this place. So many years ago.

We correspond every now and then. He sent me a picture of the house today perhaps in an attempt to jog my memory.

The house is For Sale. Yes, that is the one. That is the house where I reside in my dreams. That is the house with the grey bare walls. That is the front of the house. He has sent me another mail with a picture of the back of the house but I'm not ready to open that yet. The danger lurks there. Not ready. Not ready yet.

So much time is passing. Yes I was writing this journal only yesterday, listening to the music and then drifted, drifted off. Now I see that already more than a year has passed.

Where have they gone? Where have all the people gone? Where has all the time gone? It keeps on disappearing.

There is a knock at the door.