I woke up thinking of a poem to write and later while folding clothes thought of another. This is unusual. I should keep them in mind and work on them when I sleep again.
One is about my death row prisoner. I think of him as work and he thinks of me as love. The poem would explore these ideas, including the money-love connection, too. It sounds boring but the rhythm and my brilliant diction would make it into a nice modernist poem in English.
The other, similar in style, is about things. I have jewelry from my mother and grandmother, some of which I am already ready to give to my niece. I’ve got clothes and other items too and in the past they would have been precious to share but now they would be white elephants. Things have lost their value.
I want to stay by myself and meditate, and when I go out see kind people, who also meditate and do other things that enrich their minds. Not battle.