It's funny but not standup how I've got more noodle-rattling oodles than ever, but the ubiquitous perplexity of punctilious coherence [ed. note: egads] notwithstanding, filtering the scattershot through sieves & into useable voltage, that's a gloveless climb of K2, thus a tune & a lament, like this. Upon further reflection, yes, I am an assembly line of many hats.
Apparently, there's some Serious going on in November or tomorrow or yesterday, but seriously, whatever, shit gets in the way of versification [ed. note: holy shit, I finished two in a weekish, that's like ambition Jake says ewww] & fine-tuning my slack towards chord practice. Storm of the Yeti will play live at least four times (yes, the basement walls count as separate dates) because what's left but penning a never-to-be-seen wizards, weed, & outer space epic whilst sitting in a pool of mold-encrusted pizza boxes.
Squint real hard when shafts of sunset pierce the glass, looks like jade.
Low would be the ideal, you would think. You would be fucking stupid. Entirely unfair, you would be unaware that low feeds upon itself, & in fact, isn't itself at all. One-way has little to no forks; thereat lies the mystery & wonder of gazing at the smear that surrounds & finding the outlines of stars, or at the very least talking about nothing, which is everything, its inherent un-serious-nesse the most potent serious imaginable.
I did, Yoda, so it's back to try because that X-Wing is too fucking heavy.