the day comes and goes, and of all days, my work computer no longer functions, and a full day later continues to not function, f'ing windows, and service packs galore, and finally, the blues of february come knocking on my emotional doors, and i answer, with bells on, cause it's my month, it always is, year after year and i rejoice in it, dead of winter, spring supposedly just around the corner, that last month of winter before march, the start of spring, signs of the future, and thus these things begin, and bear fruit, but blood oranges are strange things to eat, and i am reminded, quietly, and not so openly, of what i am missing on days such as these, for on sidelines, behind lines drawn on grass, there exists something there, and to seek it for a lifetime, is often not enough, because more often than not, it's never found