Revisiting Bukowski

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than
too late.

I've been thinking a lot about this piece. It comes to me at all odd hours and I'm left wondering why it's stuck in my head. I suppose it is getting late. I better get going.

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And here's a little insight. It's as obvious as the nose on my face. He likes you. And sometime you'll realize you like him too. So do something before Charles starts singing in your head.