Mostly Never Concentrated, Always Almost Fresh

I guess fundamentally you're trained to begin with beginnings, and though that's an entirely formal and therefore temporal task, it's tough to shake.

SENTENCE STRUCTURE IS STUPID?
forget about writing correctly $$$
why not. END. with the, beginning ! ! !

And so that catches you up to pretty much the now. And the pin-ball utopia I pong about within. So we did things, because we like things, and often because we didn't like things until we did things with them.

"My fine specimen thinks he can write: therefore he must be able to write ::
muscle body tension is totally useless: therefore it must be completely useless"- an incorrectly formatted grammatical hogwash of pingpong domino weedwork.

I read about a pair of artists who created installation-based work, one would mine tunnels through mountains to catch the wind and sing notes, the other would smooth out landscape and eliminate natural texture. The two of them followed one another around, ceaselessly digging, refilling and playing with each other's art. They probably still are.

...and then, the tiny dust mote said to the other dust mote, "You're a really great pal man, I dig your style" and the other dust mote said nothing. It simply was.

Have you ever met another human? Sometimes you find yourself building card towers that SOMEONE keeps blowing over. And you rebuild, and re-plan, and re-enforce until you go mad and still to absolutely no avail. Still, when that tamborine starts shaking you had better, no I really mean it this time, BETTER.

I know, I know. I know! I know? I know! I. NO! I knew.


In other news though, has anyone seen my socks?

Miss? You're still on the clock. No, I know you know, but this, but it's, IT's, I swear! This is company time ma'am!!!!


and with one fell swoop, the bird whistled a little tune and blew from its tiny chirpy little tongue a very adequate gust of wind which in its totality was barely a tune but just audible enough to push the gentleman with the large hat's house of cards to oblivion.

Every excuse is a bad excuse is a good excuse is excuse enough to excuse us.

Inexcusably yours,
That lady who lost her socks + The Gentleman In The Hat