Still no computer that works worth a damn. The thing about that gets me, really bothers me, is that I can't write. Pen and papers stilt and stumble slowly across the page, chicken scratch across the sand.
As always I push more into the fabric of this life dream, possibility and reality overlap and sandwich me in between the sheets of a freshly made bed.
I expose myself against the air and light pours through the cracks and into down my socks into my bottomless boots, this is summer and I breath against the storm rising in my throat because before, back in may or june when I thought that it had peaked and crashed, I was wrong. That was only an uptick.
Being the sort of manic impulsive disassociative wildfire that I am it gets out of my hands before I know often what to think or how to speak and in those moments beyond sleep the stars shift as the earth tilts me to one side.
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