Surviving on a bowl of cereal, chocolate and coffee for the past two days, maybe three, and one tends to become numb to the undulating anti-quintessence rumbling at the back of ones head. The past has been a mangled period of half-assed attempts to start things, finish things, and find things. Like my zippo. I lost it today, maybe yesterday. I will probably find it once the heaps of clothing are organized, washed, and twisted into hangers and into drawers. There is an intensity in the surroundings, the unpacked boxes, a life in boxes, stacked and scattered around my domain. But let’s talk politics: SNAFU. Hunkering down, awaiting the bird flu, I’m talking to the spiders in the garage and we don’t like each other. Psychically, they’re nibbling on my neck. I scratch and slap, but there’s nothing there. Ah, the power of the mind in the dark. Open boxes, stream of consciousness flows like an invalid waterfall, and I quickly realize that I don’t know where these things should go. The bicycles are in the way and I’m not allowed to melt them down to their base elements. Fizzygoo is as Fizzygoo does, and I’m far to viscous to coalesce. Of course, that’s what spreading your mental faculties to thin will do. Too much math and science to delve into my art, too much history to concentrate on the science, too much gaming to hack through the math, too much work to take a bath, too much English to decide on to or too, too little focus to do anything well. Night life: Tap Dancing on the Keyboard, Waltzing with the Mouse, musing over the yellow, morning for the red, I haven’t spilled enough ink to justify going to bed. Spent the night with Snoopy and his host of lovers, Champaign toasts to his maker, chocolate rosebuds dripping down the esophagus. Open season on the thoughts and I forgot the mortar and the shells.