Welcome to our spaceship, mighty Hercules

Posting becomes a herculean task -- how come 101 out of every 100 instances of this trope use the Augean stables? Our undead childish fascination with shit that our adult selves unthinkingly apply to annoyances sundry & spine-powdering because Amazonian girdles are too sexy for this song or my hat* or my cat**, I suppose -- not always when writer's block blocks the noggin, or swampy Helios melts my bad haircut into something worse, or [insert personal experience here].

*I don't own a hat, just a black hoodie of great personal value

**to determine which cat, roll d4
 
The second's a dead issue (the block, not the cat(s), I'd be a basketcase & not posting), the first's currently transient, from hour to whatever hour this ungodly one is ('tis one? spooky noochies) until a word or an image serendipitous or excavated with a detox purpose --

oh sure, you (not you personally, unless I mean you, you know who you are, don't you? Yes, yes, I hear you) use art to celebrate, you shiny happy oddity holding hands (was this blockquoting helpful? I wish to know because, gentle readership, I care)

out of a book (or the confounded computer screen; to satisfy your curiosity, a black background is real dark in the dark) sparks. The puzzle's deciding which incompatible pieces to jam together to-morrow & yesterday no jam to-day though it is now to-morrow, smearing firework cardboard in symbols esoteric, commonplace if I'm feeling frisky (read: blotto or running on a fucking third wind, a mistake never to make, oh, wait;
calm blue ocean
calm blue ocean
calm blue ocean) or, smartly, saying nothing at all, like this.

Whew. Pages bursting with text exist; half of them ascetic wheelie bus repetition that casually morphed into the lyrics of whatever song was in my ear forcing me to deconstruct like a dirty Frenchman; the other half standoffish stanzas; the third half scribblings most wretched including this new batch of the second half, but too often they're as revelatory

including this new batch of the second half x-raying my various systems & finding a malignant naiveté -- I'm afraid it's terminal -- no, he's dead, Jim

as that most famous popcorn flickish finalé. No seven-headed beasts, just radioactive lizards. Does this water taste funny to you?

Surgeon blogger's warning: don't attempt to operate heavy machinery or formulate coherence under the influence of insomnia.

Thus, the recent (& foreseeable) preponderance of the snapshot -- & the occasional bit of ponderous humor but I repeat myself -- these from Supermoon Storm of Doom a quarter fortnight ago or so not that you can tell due to obscure camera failings & the lack of precision Olympian thunderbolts. But they seem to fit where my gooey insides are at, hubris & cowardice fisticuffing over the opportunity to throw my sorry ass in Lake Erie so I can wake up, cool off.