How many weeks have I wished away for what? A few steps closer to saving Zelda the weekend blur and mid-range scotch laughing at a show that ended decades ago on my fourth run through and what, should I pine for the tall pines, the crumbling sunset ruins a flight away or look microscopically and find the hidden gem of my days between the legs of hungry mites who live and die in a forest of eyebrows or is rarefied complaining enough to drop another Wednesday into the scrapbook no one reads high on the shelf to be thrown away the instant I am ash