there are not enough hours in a day for me, for me. this is ten minutes or an acorn shot through a front door storm window while the crew is sleeping. I feel like a coal miner. in the morning I will have to explain that you cannot properly crank out a buscard run on any kind of photocopier due to the unsteady shifts of registration, especially double-sided. she will snap her fingers anyway, make it happen, and don’t return until! the rich, not for their money, but for the way they treat people, how they feel so entitled to everything, spin me about.
a lozenge just before bed helps me sleep at night. methol opens the air passages.
reading The Double by Jose Saramago. my goodness can this man write. a good book so far, though very long winded for tired and worn down eyes at the end of a heavy day that’s kicked your ass from courtyard to the other end of the breadbasket. one third of the story is dedicated to detective work that I could have accomplished in five minutes with an internet connection. I kept prodding the main character with URLs but he would not listen. so I am glad now he has made his discovery and is moving forward. like him, I cannot see what is ahead, what the future holds in store.
we make our flimsy plans. or outlines of plans. outlines of outlines.
and in bed, radio through earbuds, drifting off, dreams accompanied with this soundtrack, mussels, topics, events, gossip. sit and think, it’s true, you tire out certain words. it’s time to put further effort into branching out.
a purge. anything you want. the houstonians come back into town and speak of the blackbirds. what are you, an alien abductee or something? you smell different. you smell like an ABC television station. oh, there is a lot of crap on television, and a lot of good things, too.
the small birds have flown the whirley tailed squirrels back in from a long trip. everyone is exhausted from running, flying away from the tropical storm so quickly turned gigantic hurricane. albeit, belongings are in disarray, life is glad to still be alive. life is glad to be that pebble rattling around in a tin can, you know, when you really shake it.
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