The wind blows free . . . how much do you charge? Ah, yes . . . resort to old shit to fill in the gap. Or, what if there is no difference when you are consciously streaming? This really has become like a journal or notebook inadvertently. Think novel or great works and does this give you that feeling? It doesn't matter . . . you just put three dots and it's the equivalent of a pregnant pause . . . he's pondering, it's about to come.

I try to resume sleep after AM bow-wow-poo-poo-ca-ca and invariably the ceiling stares trigger those frequent thoughts about diction and dicktion friction. If the imperative is to keep looking forward and the topic still resumes area renewal, so what? So much mind churning and heather-locklear-in-a-ferrari-with-a-million-dollars-in-the trunk fantasies never did the trick but this is working and getting better. Too much insanity ( . . . expecting different outcome) wasting ever so-o many opportunities, leading to so many regrettable actions in former life substantiate this. I've got shit (i.e. body parts) that're not working real go-o-od and matters that need attention but W E are in such a wonderful place that not-even-night-ceiling-stares trigger reversions.

The impression of Elephant Man's "I'm not a monster" themes the walk-in from day-break June 7. So much reinforcement and not a drop in a carload. The softness in her eyes suffices this old dood. My package is intact.