But he don't know what it means

Brave chicks & magic skulls, what's not to love.

Contents of a box, blueberries bobble on the tongue, processing one from a stack of none. There's this cool Bilibin work I work at work at staring at, & another by some other that I can't remember, though it's not entirely similar. We, fuck that, me, that is, I, stare at this shit for inspiration [ed. note: since it's old & arty & I love the big R, though I don't know under what scholarly heading the experts classify this nor do I care all that much beyond being used as keywords for ordering shit from other libraries], alternating between that & St. Drogo's elixir & the too/not occasional glass of vino chez moi because. Coffee is water, though headaches pop like a whack-a-mole when I don't & gallons [ed. note: I originally typoed galloons which are galleons crewed by Walloons. Would pirates like balloons?] of tea, though tasty, take too long to compensate.

All I know is that I need, really need, to write more 'cause even I get tired of doing nothing but grumbling. Not that tired, let's be clear.

Sit n' spin, see parking lot nuked for new apartments unaffordable by anyone but senior partners, so it's funny that a morning glare out future glass will be ruined by a Towering Slab-dappled view.

Maybe Baba Yaga will move in.