Blanch all night

There is just a little goddam bit less every day. Energy. One fat-assed cold front just sitting on us. Passing a little wind, perhaps, but the resultant chill (to my experience) isn't making anyone crabwalk faster then they already would in this lethargy of forsaken particles. Gah, it just pushes you into a doorway and forces you to write pap like that.

Pap. Huh.

But yeah, not kidding at all about the idleness in the air. In these times I seek out Schnapps ("giving menthol a sort of okay name") and practitioners of longform drone. Like I can be asked to flip a 12" single every <=7 minutes right now. Trust, it hurts.

Fortunately, there is relief to that end as well. I have finally clutched the Vodka Soap tapes and they soothe and are sooth. Still, like a chump I have not auto-reverse. Further proof that life has only eroded since my "heady paperroute days"[tm]. How could a manthing tire of these mantras? It doesn't matter. Just tired in general. But the guy has laid it out here in little magnetic strips: He's thankful so you don't hafta be. Just puddle around and let him descend the curly straw.

When the devotionals just don't work in any accounts, I have been switching up to queen of phantom limbs Marcia Basset's latest Zaimph traimph, Mirage of the Other. Meat of all temperatures will certainly appreciate where she's going gone with this. Claws of many sizes of cat bared, in assorted denominations not discrete. But does that make them continuous here? I can't even tell; it's a glorious kind of claybath that has me up in arms against the frost on our lone window here, and making endless variations of those hand-tricks that look like footprints. When all day is nocturnal, this is the way to go, I have a hunch.