What can I say that Rumi hasn’t already said? What kind of candid snapshot can I take straight out of my unbelievable days to blast on the internet? What can I say that’s different from yesterday? My mind wanders, but it knows it is these, the same old untreatable sores it wants to exhibit, like a fine view at the d’Orsay. The work that didn’t get done, the flame burning my home, the unanswered knock on the door, the interrupted dreams galore, the flower that didn’t bloom, the chrysalis that didn’t pull through… I’d be letting the world peek in as I speak, but inside, it’s like an old dusty…