Run-on's, sentenced (and sequenced) starts with: eeeeh, I s'pose I oughta' take the whirligig off although it's presently riding a delicious little November current that's making it spin and squeak and I'm filling a 90 minute tape's worth via mic attached to the beanpole (that rustic wooden thing pictured, draped in dead beanery) and it's good, er, "zen" practise to record something that subjects itself without fault, clue, or glue, to the fabric of space and exquisite corpse-results (mind the mistakes in grammer and culture-sponges); this task being as such and so very nice a manner of being in this semi-coherent way of keeping an analogue/dialogue with the day without being so screen-sucked in and, um, well, but then, I'm writing this and you're reading this, so...