Bumping along the bottom of the barrel, this blog. Barely enough interest to sustain the original investment much less earn enough for a future. Prose tickles me. Ignore this paragraph.
The whole house asleep. Everyone gone to sleep.
Perhaps I should join them.
Perhaps I have already.
My body is still working off dinner. Heck, it’s probably still working off lunch. My thumb is shorter by the width of a carrot slice. A plaster hangs ineffectually from it. Luckily, thumbs aren’t needed to type. But doesn’t it amaze you that we have no other (effective) way to communicate than by words?
I’ll try to locate my observations in reality. I pause and think about this. My pause stops and I discover that I have decided that this is my reality. It isn’t entirely my fault that you don’t understand me.
Excerpt from the unexpurgated thoughts of a past Robert C Day, who was sitting on a bed not his own, legs crossed, brows knitted and not even pretending to be as sane as Mabelline (a pseudonym for Maisie (un nom de plus de Magerite))