they trouble me

I can no longer type. I think. Or I'm becoming less able to type now that I've taken such a long hiatus from typing. I feel. Many things coruscate around me and sometimes I act like a complete idiot about them. My hands feel like dead lumps of jelly at the moment. Typing is harder than I'd like it to be, and the last decent communication I had was quite a long time ago. I think I want more chocolate at the moment. I hate being here. I'd rather be elsewhere.

rotunda or else

seem! frogs! decompensations. declarations of someone holding on or not holding on. I lost my edge. Oh hell did I lose my edge. Time to start regaining it somehow. Interesting diversion, wouldn't you say, Mr. Covalent Bond. Like a random skittering across the filaments of time. Oh I have my druthers together and I know what I'm talking about. Yes, the universe is astonishingly weird and at the moment it's particularly weird and you know, I suppose that it doesn't do one too good to be ordinary when the universe is being this profoundly weird in many a sequence of events. I ask of you not: what is not a trapezoid and is yet illegal in portugal: absolutely everything under the sun. My life is spent in literary confinement. I seek liberation from this overly literal existence and this psychotic perterbation of my immediate environment.