Well it's over... the man said so, chugging at my heart-straps, pulling out long tubes that'd been sedate and held over, gelden/gilded/trapped in la brea since Thrushday. I broke Micha's box with this widener; thereafter running the table into the floor and resigning to some song about pitying you when you sing about freedom. Exact words:
"That cloud of devotion you have is next to being (well?) dead, dead, dead, dead."
So, it's really an upbeat tempo, no need to get too pissy. Running to the press with pictures of manure and child porn and semblances of Ottoman return and/or Zionist rancor or the latest manner of chauvinism du jour, well... more pity to ya, heh. The beer and the herds and the explicit seeding of returning back to the quiet tucks back into the pines, well... it's an easier than-thought transfer. Thought is faster, I mean, but slipping back undercover while the insults hurl above... am glad to have happened; am glad to be back into shaded barn perch. There's a tendency to want to strut about like a rooster with blazen codpiece and shiny talismen waving about, be it here or there or on the very limited box-vista that would be the internet internment camp. Too many voices, perhaps? Perhaps is best to quietly recede. Such a mocking tone that percolates this unwise; smelling up the joint with coughing and uninformed uniform gloats. Hurried senses intend to return (when you return), making work out of play and careers out of thin air and hopes from a peck on the cheek. It's almost maniacal, hanging on to each breath as an informant to your next bout of enthusiasm or failure. Decider, judge, grudge and fury. Ahh them boxes, sorry Micha... the word's out. Next stage will be inside-out!