Acres of vapid humdrum spout wispy nothings and creeping misfortunes. In desolation, nature doesn't stop feeding itself. Elsewhere, the silent air hangs mightier: stirred not yet ignited; wincing, trapped in comfort; degrading but dying to feel. I've looked after my body with cookies, and my tumbling mind with a song.
Naked and sweating, bathing charmed for an hour. Now I'm clothed and blogging. It's funny how we, conversation and snoozing machines, choose to be entertained. Haha! Either we hurt each other because we hate ourselves, or my perceptiveness is a little off-kilter. Is my receptiveness a little too filtered? I'll receive a fuckton of Christmas. So please, let's enjoy this most wonderful time of the year.