Can I put my feet out while it’s moving? (As if the pilot in the film Contact, with J. Foster)
You know how it is: sh*t moving all over, out of focus, holding the right-eye in desparation to be on-target, without making the eyes pop-out, or everything– at least– is blurred, and not as I wish.

I guess it’s just auto-pilot so much of the time, and I knew I was f*cking-up just now, but– rather than delay the entire text, I figured it would really cave-in, and this bastard would wake. It’s too f*ckin’ bright out. { … I remember Martha: not as sweet, but breaks out. Don’t know– some kind of trouble, I guess. F*ckin’ sleep, all f*ckin’ day too. f*ck }

Last month, it was monthly. This month, it’s going to be two-weeks (now, walkin-shoes worn thin, as some memory of Lofstead)

I hope you didn’t blow out that entire chandelier of lifts just now.

What’s hot: stop it!