that all thinking is fraught I reckon with work, with perturbations in the shale of friendship, with hailing and calling on the hail to break us down. With the kinship of ever outlying areas of expertise. Synergy, bitches. With the precision of compliments offsetting any general malaise that forms on my head rashy and whammo. There it is. My sense of oneself connected, non-dropped, always driving home from work pretty set. Pretty ok I’d say having planned the planning, the invites a-flapping. Having friendly ships on the port of despairing. Port of Charlesishness. On the port of all non-congruous nervous turkey gestures I bling with the air of blinging, bling badly you’d say as stupid as I was to write it down. So I farted under the blanket, under my pants, under my unwear, and so on so forth.