And I sit down here at my desk to write and I wonder what it has all been about all of these years. The writing. This historical saga of my histories. I am uncertain if it has ever morphed beyond the belief that life is everything on record and as our hearts and minds wander wonderingly over the elliptical horizon to dip into the unknowable abyss I come back less certain of my physicality and more aware of crickets.
I suppose all of this is relative, normal. I seem to have lost focus in the slipstream consciousness: a fickle trainless trainstation
chunkachunk pulling vibrating my spine and all through my central nervous system feeling sound. I don't know if it qualifies as synesthesia but it sure as shit qualifies me for the dance floor.
*.Secret Talents.*
*.Shameless Self-Promotion.*
*.Focused Pursuit.*
Sleep Well
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