The Rhythm of the Absent Saints

It's as if a switch got switched. Off. The one that controls my appreciation of sentences that sing, sentences with dead-perfect stops. Interior rhymes. I'm just not reading as much anymore, and when I do it's all hit-or-miss. Hard to find something to really hold on to. The Roth book I'm currently on, "Everyman", has its moments, but it's the first in awhile.

It's a muscle that needs to be worked again. I'm thinking all the Poker has made it all dull, made much of the rest of life dull. When you're into it, it consumes you - elbows everything else aside. Which is okay. For awhile. But I want both. Salter and Brunson. Carver and Ivey. A well rounded life. A (poker) room of my own.