No handle bars

Six more weeks. Six more weeks. Six more weeks.

Stuff is staring me down. I'm not quite paralyzed but my plastic Wendy's spoon isn't quite making a dent in Marjorie Garbage Pile's lack of helpful advice. If you focus you're not focusing on something but what am I supposed to focus on? Splatter.

All nerves and it's getting colder. My eyes and ears a raw as the sky's bland clear crow's caw. Hupp. Not as bad as all this, yeah, but I like to whine and I hate to get it done. Actually I don't believe there exists anything that is done or can be so. My life ain't discrete like that. The only thing that I know will sometime be done right now is six weeks.