Wipe that smile off your mug.
Twenty years today. Huh. Pause. Here, a dozen half-ass semi-starts on the complexity of hex mapping low-maintenance rainbows' blood-drenched maws requiring a top-flight tool kit to finish pretend-devouring gleefully chucked philosophy never discussed, hour-long stares through right + wrong axes slope equaling consequence natch & into dry wall & brick, all whilst navigating drunken tidal currents but then I remembered my heritage to filter like a fancy English smoke, so I'm left with a nagging cough, ear-stuck buds, inkless demons, those crumbled-up cringe things, & being one of those where the fuck am I folks. I was promised an ulcer! 'tis nothing congratulatory, spambot acquaintance, merely an approximation spun out of this rock's orbit of a G-class star.
Humans sure love marking the miles before the dirt, which rules 'cause darkthroning is cool & refreshing, unless it's summer, then it's only refreshing.