I say sorry a lot. Perhaps it comes from my grandmother or perhaps from my breeding. I’ve always been the self-effacing gentleman; the softly spoken, apologetic alien. But it isn’t true. Its a lie I tell myself as I beg to sleep. Sorry is her eyes as they sink into the water on a sunny spring day. They plead when I dress, when I shave, when I drive, when I live my hollow, polite, timid, sour pretend life. I only say sorry because I am.
(c) Tim Austin 2016
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