I must apologize to my readers that give me time out of their precious lives to read my posts. My earlier post was horrible. I knew it was horrible when I was writing it. It lacked honesty and emotion. It was pedantic. It was as ordinary as washing dishes. And I’m sorry.
Sometimes I am pedantic. Sometimes I lack inspiration. And when that happens my language becomes, in a word, pedestrian.
So I’m writing this to you on my iPhone, in twilight while in the company of one of my best friends Paron.
Paron and I spend an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening together. It is with Paron that I afford myself time to think. Think honestly. Paron is my cigar.
Paron isn’t a lover. Although I enjoy him, taste him, savor him, and enjoy our times together, Paron doesn’t inspire me. My Parisian inspires me.
There is nothing that comes between me and Paron. Even my Parisian awaits his turn. He cares for Paron as much as I do. He likes Paron on my breath, on my clothes, and in my beard. He thinks that the aroma of Paron is intoxicating. How lovely, I think, that my Parisian isn’t the least bit jealous of my friendship with Paron.
I cherish my hours with Paron. But Paron is a habit. Some would say a bad habit.
But my Parisian is a gift which I enjoy unwrapping and re wrapping several times a day.