Interstellar overdrive goes boink

Paralyzed by inaction.

By any mathematickall reckoning, there has been of late more pictures than words digitized scrawled* on the musty walls of this increasingly loathsome place oh how the cheap laughs fool you insert supervillain chortle here, a formula applied for both your sanity, gentle reader, & mine. Honestly, that's a lie, the first half of that equation at any rate stop it what's with all the references to number crunching I cannot answer, such dimestore topography a wretchedness cousin to having an economic lecture blasted through a Marshall stack whilst lemon juice is daubed on paper cut corneas, lashings continually refreshed like a Space Casino shot glass. & I hate writing nearly as much because I love it & what it represents only to have it fail me as I fail it, acids & bases reacting into a blank artificiality, every time.

*if I could draw, I'd sketch rust & Bear & flowers & amusement & loss & a constellation or two if there wasn't so much industrial glare, though those, too, would be digitized, hey ant, get outta here, too, to, two.

What of that rare hour when it doesn't? You cannot see the imaginary -- perhaps it will someday come, one last ringing of the red star bell, gradient blazing the sky before the nation goes out & to torture the metaphor some more, how come I didn't even get a '60, '62 or '68? Rock and/or roll isn't the only loser's game -- & the stuff that comes (very relatively) close, I cannot show.

Socially awkward is the real awkward.

& what of the issues of the day, no, what of self-examination, what of dissecting faith, such as it is & not that kind simmer down you know who you are, this crutch, grain ever weakening, splitting, leaned upon for how much longer as a casual wave of the hand, a dismissal that unlocks a selfish return inside the shell, sulk deftly parrying each strut & fret of the mask?

First, cohering the scattershot, then, let the snooze begin, for you & for me.

Pass.

The point? I don't know, thinking out loud, & typing it. Again, I don't know.

Au revoir? What else am I going to do at work when not snarking, fueled alchimick by the Kynge's Brewe, over the bizarrerie of humanity sundry, infuriating & comical? The muses -- & let's be clear, not just of art, but also of human interaction, for that too is an art**; fuck, feels like I'm padding, now I know what others suffer when I ramble, apologies -- don't come with a GPS, & how unromantic capital R would that be anyway.

**double fuck, that sounds suspiciously networking & ambitiously careerist upon first cynical glance whereas I certainly with gusto mean an art 180° from such soul-destroying toxins, an art that's neither making & broadcasting a grand creative statement nor a self-aggrandizing manipulation of Calvinball, but hands kneading the form itself, the shapes, colors, textures, &, perhaps most important, vulnerabilities of this planetary existence, & sharing that with other humans.

Alongside yours truly, the air stands at a crossroads, playing the blues. Chalk it up, perhaps, to it being nearly three, partially hungover, & consciously tired of all but the fewest of things, strangely, the ones I have no control over.

That's progress, I guess.