Torrential rain, a steaming cup of black tea, Hello Saferide and eyes made of sleep. Every six months or so, motion forces planted in my fingers guide me to type the living shit out of my keyboard and the blog normally bears the brunt of what results. The last half annum has been.. compelling. You know how every birthday you wake up and wish you felt older and you don't. There are those times and then there are times when every inch of metaphysical growth is tangible, when you can feel your maturity flourish, when you pass a finish line or complete your thesis on 16 century poets. Or listen to the rain interrupt the Swedish twee pop that's going to kill your ipod in two songs.
The clear division between yesterday and tomorrow. Between The Before and The After. Today,right now it's the thin white line that seperates the two. I'd like to pretend I have something consequential, revolutionary to write about. Heh. Overt shmalz perhaps, a story of hope, or love or hate or consummerisim or communism or all of the aforementioned woven intricately into the autobiographical recapitulation of the life of old-lady-with-three-cats Mrs Pinto and her objectophillic obsession for a particularly pretty digital clock. Imagination fails me.
So I'm just going to tell you about this fun thing that happened to me day before. Person A (who would probably castrate me( oo parantheses within parantheses oo! anyhow, in brutal, tribal ways) if I told you who he is)