Pain of it

to say to my father my career is waiting rooms and I need hardwood floors and white-framed windows, that the mornings be important because I am alone in time, and there is light that must come through two windows across the bed let it shine on the books at my feet. I want that ipod charger/speaker/alarm clock so that I can listen lower and lower to emmylou harris, as it's always a matter of wist in the morning and the alarm of sadness that is shedding and leaving things in the light. My house that I am losing on the snow and the mountain for my dad. The picture of it and the cat asleep in the closet, fireplace that is just a hole in the picture of us, as I was saying at the terminal on standby, with this handmade Bolivian bag that someone's always appraising, the colt's last stand in san diego, things I need a chair for to tell.