The Two Way Metaphor Gate

In building short hand, a degree of expression is reached that can and does generate the rare joy of identity and naming.  Mapping.  Map with as much resolution as can be mustered.  How else can a clearer understanding be reached!  Shouting is not permitted.  How else can a clearer understanding be reached.  How else can a clearer understanding be reached?

From its surface metaphor appears lazy.  Jagged.  Elliptical.  Fragmented.  Excessive.  Dumb.  Misguided.  Glittery.  Vain.  Hyperbolic.  Binary.  From its surface it's a lot of things, directly below perception it is incandescent.  A bit of metal chewed fast and friction enough to trace a retina and leave shades.

It is one of the few things all languages have in common.  A short hand.

Some mental disorders may fall just outside of the curve of the metaphorist.   Not in terms of comprehension, but in terms of time.  Around folks speaking the common language and sparking, some will see the shades and some will project the shades and be able to predict from the point of a sound.

The problem, a problem, arises with metaphor's other power.

In its ability to link ideas and present a universe whose limits, as humans, are the speed of salts in brains and quantum entanglement, it can also cross time.  Places and spaces you've never been and people you've never known.  Places and spaces no one has ever seen and places and spaces heard of dreams.

I guess what I'm saying is consciousness of metaphors power can unleash and enable some ridiculous and unaccounted for futures.  It can describe the present you are in to people you will never meet in the future.   It can describe someone's past you've never met before in all of your days on Earth or in space or outside of the common dimension.  It can define the undefinable.  Free the interned and capture the holy.  It is powerful and infinite.  Innocent and horror.  Dirge and beautiful.

As close to time travel as humans may ever reach.  With metaphor, the past is present - the future too - all in the space of a gesture, a syllable, a smell, a touch - a note.  A one.  A zero.  In sequence.  That's why it is a two way gate.  Futures can be created inside of them and the past can manifest with a breath and a blink through the same swinging door.




///Dirty Projectors & Bjork - (When the World Comes to an End)     for a long time

Time To Shed, Or What They Call Its

Molt.  Molting.  It takes some time.

We have backed ourselves into a new corner.

Bare teeth.  You know I can always see

what you really are!

Scared?  Of course.  Unimaginably so.

Conscious?  Yes.  The pain scale is new.

Familiar?  No.  Unfortunately no.





///to be continued

Thought Experiments

They are wonderful.  The down side is they can lock you up with inaction.  They can make you distant and untouchable.  They can make you a perpetual daydreamer.  They are not real.  They can bring you to a place, after running over every possible iteration of futures and their trees and branches, nothing will be able to surprise you.  Not now, not ever.  Everything becomes old faster than you can possibly age without introducing performance enhancing drugs to your body's ability to restore itself.  Nothing will ever surprise you if you go down the road.  Why choose?  Take every fork in mind.   Every fork.  And the forks beyond them and beyond them too.  Die 200 deaths, live 200 lives.  Imagine them all!

The up shot is, 24 iterations out, you may land upon a world that is in perfect tune and natural balance so incredible to be immediately discredited.  Upon review, it revolves, it sits still, it moves only when touched, and it's gravity is its own and its poles its own.  You explore and find an object or idea that defies everything you knew and live in and is contained within itself in eternum.  You stumble upon a number that is a number and not at once.  A quantity unquantifiable.  A thing, brought 24 levels backward in to your three dimensional time locked existence, that will vanish the moment you return home.  An idea that only exists in that space.

So hunt.  Hunt!  Thought experiments are wonderful.  Yes, many things will not surprise you.  Many things in your "now" will lose their luster and zest, but should you come upon that perfectly imbalanced mirror sphere that only spins counterclockwise that turns the universe if you attempt to put your fingertips or tongue on it to make it move clockwise because gravity and space time need not apply at the door you have to exit before entering, they are worth it.  Every second.  Every minute.  Every hour in dreams.




///The Cure - "Burn"

Prior To the Holidays

I want a tank for Christmas.  Or a giant robot decked out in yellow, orange, and pink and black.  Or a Gulf blue and orange Z car.  Or a plot of land on which to build my miniature fortress.

I am not staying up or threatening Santa again this year.  He knows what he did.  Imagining a rolling and roiling knife fight with Santa Claus.  Robo Claus.  I imagine it going something like trying to fight Mad Pierrot.  I don't need or want Christmas gifts from Santa.  That dude.  That guy.  Nuke the North Pole.  I am already drawing up the campaign posters.  That's the only way we can put an end to his tyranny.   The light reflected from converting the North Pole and several more latitudes to glass will balance out the weather changes from melting all of the ice.  It'll save the world.  A few decades later, nuke the South Pole.  Just in case he pulled a super villain escape the first time.  You have to let the planet rest for a minute or we'll all end up in Fallout 6.

It doesn't really feel like Christmas.  I haven't talked much about holidays.  We live in a different world now.  The changes have crept in and grown to pillars and foundations from cells and seeds.  I took a lot of time to see and understand the new world and I still am.  It's been a bit of a strange year with a certain amount of disconnection and decoupling from holidays.  I am pretty sure I have not delivered a single gift to anyone, including myself, on time.  I guess as you get older, a certain amount of disconnection can be expected.  A certain amount of migration.  Not really a certain amount of migration, but certain migration in a measurable amount.  There's a massive difference.

For the first time I have put up evergreens!  The sensation and scent is wonderful.  Not a tree.  I haven't put up a tree since I made my first permanent home all my own.  I've begun with a wreath hanging in front of a window.  I want to put lights on it, but the hazards to myself and my cats running around with the lights off and finding games and ways to play with them are a little too great and will require more planning than I have put into it for this year.  Next year we will add some layers to the design.  Ornaments too.  It will be pretty spectacular.  By the standards of rediscovering Christmas.

I think that is what may have been happening this year.  A rediscovery of the holidays, each and every one, and their redefinition as singular life has begun to solidify into a definite, if not unpredictable, course.  Redefining relationships and reaffirming others and watching people change and change how they interact with you and how I interact with them.  All of the elements of the galaxy and their interdependence is brought forth and thrown into sharp relief over holidays, along with how those elements are measured and quantified.

The year end look will have to be started well before the year actually ends to get everything into something resembling a timeline.  I'm up for the challenge.  I believe I am up for the challenge.  It's not like the holidays bear no significance in this new world.  It's that I am trying to better understand what their significance is.  A lot like a kid trying to understand what the significance of breaking a lamp is, or drawing on the walls, or going to work, or playing in the street, or not talking to strangers, or the sun coming up, or clouds in the same sky moving in different directions, or being tired the day after staying up all night.

I'm trying to get into the Christmas spirit and think about what I want to change and affect in the next year of life.  It's not my new year.  Calculating what my actual age is (I haven't been celebrating my birthdays like I should): I am 30 going on 31.  My thirty first birthday in my 30th iteration of life may actually be the day after Christmas.  An odd alignment of perspectives I guess.  I can't help chuckling.  It is an odd confluence of parameters.  At the intersection of sixth street and sixth street, you are at the nexus of the universe.

I do not hate the holidays.  All gifts to be sent out are on a four to five week delay.  Life has been exceptionally demanding; your patience is appreciated.  Actually, I love them.  Still ten years out from being a real boy, at the least.  Those ten years will fly.




///Peanuts - "The Christmas Dance"  when you've got yourself about as together as you possibly can without tampering.

At the End of the Seventh Week (damage report)

Out of the fog of wars, asked for and not, comes the final damage report.

The total bill:

1 fractured left jawbone submandibular fossa.
1 dislocated left jawbone condylar process.
1 dislocated left jawbone coronoid process.

The total paid:

1 healed jawbone submandibullar fossa.
1 healed jawbone condylar process.

I don't think the coronoid process will ever heal correctly.

Total bill:

Zero $.
Constant pain in the coronoid process, but bearable and adaptable.

Final result:

No crippling pain.
Unforgettable pain.  The kind of pain every morning and every evening and every time I think about eating.  However, the kind of pain that will remind me to be a better a person.  The kind of pain that is unforgettable and good in its way because it will diffuse further scuff ups and other opportunities to speak my mind whenever I feel like, be it the thrill of getting ice cream or the the assuage of killing off the thrill of murdering someone else because I ... a good deterrent.  There are only so many ways to explain so many things.  This one is adequate.

I can eat.  I can chew.  I can tear.  I can exercise.  I can use the rest of my body.  I refuse to incriminate myself.  And I will not start here.

The healing has been amazing.  I am able to smoke again.  I wake up every morning feeling like a railroad spike has been shoved through my skull from the left side, right up through my ear, behind my eye socket and I've never had a migraine by definition, but this must be close to it.

I choose to let it go.

I choose to move on.

I have to.

Head hunters don't lead good lives.

I am furious and love struck and oh so amber and rose and pink in the joy of being able to wake up with 90% of my function back and if that's as good as it gets, hell baby, I got off lucky.  I will take that and dance and swing hammers and think about the next time and maybe I will strike first or maybe I will disarm myself before what you are carrying becomes an issues, but for fucks sake, it is good to be able to laugh free again.

The final damage report is this:

Mistakes were made on one side.  Mine.  I ate it.  I came out on the other side, tempered and galvinized.  A shorter fuse and a shorter leash too.   I expect less of other people and more of myself.  And that is flipping pretty good for a prognosis of a wire job.

I've known what it is to not be able to speak for days at a time, not because you couldn't, because you were literally locked closed.  A blindness.  I've known unprovoked hate in the shade of unbridled happiness.  Your spectrum is Roy G, Biv.  Mine is unspeakable in its range and color and temperature and length.  It has no name yet and I may not be able to give it a convenient one.

I now have the power to teach, and I will not.  Unless you press me.




///TV on the Radio - (Lovers Day)  of course, there are miracles... the people we think you are.  give me the keys to your hiding place

Pushed

All I wanted was a front row seat in what feels like a war and looks nothing like it.  I keep reciting the procedure and double and triple checking equipment, and in the mean seconds ticking by the pilot is sweating marbles trying to keep our helicopter away from flak and small arms fire and the occasional rocket, circling where I need to land once I jump off of the side.  I'm sweating too fearful of what happens after I step out into thin air, but I know what happens.  There's nothing to be afraid of.

Walking into my apartment after getting groceries the long fingered man with the reading glasses glances up and turns around and taps the only skin on his arm not flayed away where a watch was.  Time is of the essence.  I know.  There is not much time to waste.  I know, I know, I know.  Where are you going?  Out, don't follow me.  You forgot your wallet.  Thank you.

I suppose, a sort of writer's block for persons who don't get writer's block?

Consider this your gentle, two palmed, straight armed shove.  You know what has to be done.  Pull the trigger.

I worry sometimes that it won't make sense.  I worry now if it's not good.  If the entire pursuit has been a waste.  Why poetry?  What is locking up inside you?  It's nothing.  Absolutely nothing and you know it.  Don't be afraid, you've just had your eyes closed for a few months.  Listening to the air and the land and space and people eating each other alive and giving birth and dying and sleeping and breathing and talking and talking and it's not so bad if you'd only open your eyes standing on the ledge of the gunship.  Make sense out of chaos.  Or chaos out of chaos.  Make sense of it later.  Every thought lost to time is one less beacon, one less point of reference, one less story, one less epic, one less chapter, one less relationship you could have brought into this world from your travels.  One less love.  Do it for you.  Do it because you can love you and that's where it all starts.  Come clapping toward the bright pink smoke flare while the shells fly.  I'll be back to pick you up sooner than you have time to think to ask "where did you go?"




///Sylvan Esso - "Hey Mami"    higher resolution

Change, Other Peoples Clothes, Top Down Sun Up, and Attack

I think that's how I got good at defense.  Attacking is an entirely different bag.  Attack, attack, attack!  Get on it!  I don't do call and response all that well.  I do response.  A lot of my growing up and formative whatevers was response, not call.  I was raised not to call and it's been a hedge maze trying to get out of it.  When I do call it's usually over top of what I was calling for and it's blunderbussy.  Killing a fly with a hammer instead of a swatter and then I have to fix the hole in the wall left behind.  It's been fun learning though, learning how to call the right way when calls need to be made and learning that response shouldn't be the only way to integrate myself into lives, because they have lives too and waiting until you're screaming and bleeding out of the eyes is no way to go about inserting yourself into conversation.  I still need distance in a bad way, but a good way.  It keeps them safe and it keeps me safe from misunderstandings and not so shuffle crowds and that's a good thing.  The fewer the things flowing in the better I can handle, and then it's not a frag of choice.  I hate getting hooked on forks.  STOP GIVING ME CHOICES WITHOUT CHANCES TO BREAK UP BAD ONES!  That's my only qualm with the United States of Aye Merica.  The land of one time opportunity for too many of us.  I'd swing less opportunity for more chances any day.

If I could go back in time I wouldn't punch myself in the face or shake myself by the shoulders.  I'd kiss me.  Hard and furious and little me would be like "what the fuck, man!" and then I'd tell him "it gets rougher, harder, longer, and more ridiculous.  You're going to fire a staple through your hand by accident and it's going to suck, but you're going to try to get out of work early and it's going to be one of the worst days post parents that you'll hate.  It'll heal up alright and nearly seamless and your boss will be proud of you for getting things done, but you're gonna wish you took more time on the project.  Just sayin'.  You're gonna hate it for about two minutes, but you're gonna kiss the blood and move on."  Poof!  Time traveling me peaces out and little me scratches his eyebrow and mumbles "no way."

I'm wearing other people clothes from goodwill.  They're great!  Half the stuff I have on makes me wonder what could provoke someone to give them up.  I haven't bought myself a jacket in a long time.  It's been years and I hadn't really thought about it until now.  It was always my mother, well, not always.  Sometimes my dad would pass me one.  I still miss my Bell Atlantic jacket sometimes.  That thing was the tits.  Furry pockets, double layered body and a knit collar.  Loved it.  Don't love how I got it (from my father, I hate saying that, but it's true.  I hate thinking about "I came from that"s cuz it makes me sick and it probably shouldn't, still heated, still gotdamn heated, it's not gonna die, but I actually want it to.  If he wants to apologize, my terms are teeth.  Not all of them.  But give me one of your kanines and apology accepted.  Until then, and only because you outright refused me.... twice, til death), but that jacket was everything you could want in a jacket.  Nice and tough outer with ... aw, it's not leather... trying to think of the word... the outer was made of the stuff good work pants are made of.  The cuffs were knit too, just like the collar.  And you can't beat the Bell Atlantic logo on the chest.  So good!

I'm wearing other peoples clothes and it feels nice.  It feels right.  It feels good to have new things that I bought on my own with my own tastes instead of for all kinds of purpose.  Purposeless clothing rocks.  Why do you have that jacket?  No reasons beyond my own.  It tickles me to say that.  Everything has been so purpose driven toward survival and managing damage and matching in, but this time, this jacket isn't about matching in or history or family or learning how to run with the silverfish, it's just about wearing what I want to wear.  The thing about goodwill though, the darker side, is wondering about if some of my stuff is going to end up at one when for one reason or another, cut short, or left standing still, my things get out of time.  Is someone going to be eyeing my baseball jersey who also loves the number 78?  I'm not mad about it, but I wish I could meet them so we could talk about our affinity for 78 and how it came about.

Top downing it.  I tried to go ground up and I couldn't provoke myself to make the change to oemfail, so I'm taking it from the roof down and it hurts.  Thematics don't work backwards no matter how hard you try to grow them that way.  I do enjoy the brighter motif.  I really do.  We're gonna grow the font into a better color and adjust the images, but sometimes you just have to go into a room and sit down in it to begin to understand where it's coming from.  The same thing goes for people.  You'll never get a good read from afar.  Top downing it because I've been boxed out and there is no other option.  And I'm okay with that.

I don't like change.  Change is stupidly difficult.  Sometimes routine will betray you and catch you not paying attention and I think I like that worse.  I can be manipulated and gulled and switch backed fairly easily, but I like to think of it as a trade off.  A trade off I am willing to take.  Unwillingly at times.  Taking it though.  Brighter and brighter.  Years behind and still in meta jail with my fingers through the fence, but making keys.


///Mackelmore - "White Walls"  .... lean back... the more I listen to his album the more I enjoy it

Astral Pain, Curbing Self Absorption, and Re-engagement

A gorgeous thing happens when you wake up and step outside and the world has a luster to it that isn't glass eyed.  The bricks are warm though the air is skin tight cold.  The sun is not screaming, but humming.  The clouds are waiting instead of watching and the trees are content to not say a word as you go about your day.  And it's cool.  The voices are not so loud and the stars at night are not calling you home.  All they say as you hunt in the dark is "we're happy out here as long as you're happy down there, but feel free to visit when you're ready," and it's good.  It's great.  The weapons are collecting dust and the hands are busy again at other operations and no one else has to die and it's a great feeling.  The jail yard feels bigger than it ever has and seeing your breath is so welcome a change you damn near want to cry because Summer hurt you so bad, and you've been waiting so long to see snow again and for a while there you didn't think you'd make it that long.  A strange and gorgeous thing.  The quietude.  The death of everything and the ashes blowing through the grass.  Everything slowing down to a speed your eyes can process again.  Gorgeous.  Everything returning to a temperature more fit for your fusion heart.  The astral pain subsiding.

One of the immediate difficulties plaguing the writing has been an exorbitant amount of self absorption.  Getting beyond it has been difficult.  Spitting out all of the junk on top of the processes.  Kicking out the bad and pointless information, the information occupying a lot of cycles and routines.  Brain space and resources.  Resources that can't be repurposed or freed up until the train is run through the tracks and their opened again.  A necessary thing.  There's a lot on the burners.  In fact the kitchen was pretty much on fire.  Nothing edible was made.  Did manage to make some wicked cool... I don't know.  Lost my train of thought.  Started thinking about huffing paint again, but I'm not too thrilled with the results.  At least, not thrilled enough to go out of my way.  What was I talking about?

Oh yeah, so I've been fairly disappointed with all of the sentences starting with "I" and so many of the themes being things dear to my heart, but unable to touch the rest of the world my head lives in.  It got boring.  You wait and you wait and you wait for the bulb to go off and then you look at the picture and it's another damned self portrait.  You keep calling up your imaginary friends and they answer the phone and you sit down to talk about what you and he talked about and then you hold it up when you're done and it's another god damned self portrait.  I started asking myself how the hell it kept happening.  What the hell was I doing wrong?  The arrow finally pierced my thigh.  Not really.  I just talked and talked and talked until I had nothing left to talk about and I could remember again the things they said too.

They never left.  I was so torn up and wrecked and lost all at once I ended up circling the woods for weeks before something looked familiar again.  I'm reckoning loss again.  Reckoning with.  Minor and major losses of people.  Losing people again.  Dealing with dead channels that I thought would live forever and asking myself what I did wrong and realizing at this point the answer is nothing.  Sometimes there's no explanation.  I'm pretty sure I came to that conclusion before.  Years ago.  The conclusion about a general lack of causality in the humanverse.  Sometimes there is no explanation and I was okay with it then.  I'm learning to be okay with it now all over again.  People out grow you.  You out grow people.  Sometimes friends stay and sometimes friends go, sometimes you get to stay in touch and sometimes you don't.  Sometimes you dance.  They never left.

Curbing self absorption.  Curing self absorption, was a difficult task and not entirely done.  I still have to get back inside the heads of the people and places populating my dreams.  Pierce the fog of internal war.  It's still there, but I have become so unbelievably conscious of it's necessity and it's force of presence that I can begin to work around and work through it.  Begin to retool things that have sat in draft for months.  That's important to me.  It's important to them too.  So many storylines continue on in the background and it's fantastic to be able to sit down and leave myself behind to engage them and when I can't do that the storylines continue to their conclusion and when I finally do look at them again everyone is gone and I can't remember what we were doing there in the first place or where they may have mentioned they were going next.  However, I understand now

that I was standing far too close to the bars and the picket planks to enjoy the space I've earned.  Far too close to the window and hating the feeling of my nose there pressed to see the AUs.  I have to tell you that I love you so much, these days.  I forget to do that too much.  Too often.  A return to the observational side of things and less the actor.  Returning to the maps and the center of the yard where the fences are so far I can barely see them.  It's terribly easy to fall into yourself when you can feel your hands burning inside the diamonds of that twisted wire.

I am re-engaging.  Decoupled for so long.  It's easy to believe that is all there is for you.  Because it is.  If you want more you have to wrestle it away from what has already been determined, if that makes sense.  And I'm trying, have been, and finally succeeding a little bit.  Trying not to over celebrate.  I know the next turn is right around the corner and part of living with paranoid schizophrenia is guarding against yourself.  I accept that.  I don't particularly enjoy it.  I definitely woke up the other day unable to speak because I screamed my lungs out as hard as they would go.  That was a funny one to explain when I went to my temp job and rasped like a 90 year old chain smoker who couldn't break a decibel if his life depended on it.  "I just want you to be okay."  I just wanted you to stop asking about it.  I think I'm raving a little bit so

I'll bring this thing to a close for now and shove off from here, wherever here is, later on.  The astral pain has subsided.  Self absorption has been curbed, but not cured.  I am getting back in touch with the outer planes. I am re-engaging with life, though some parts of life will be or already have disengaged with me.  Most importantly Winter is here.  It feels like a lifetime went by in the months between this time last year and now.  Twisting in the breeze.


///Lionrock - "The Guide" ... the nineties killed it for electronic music.  in a good way.

Proliferation Theory

If you do enough, something is bound to stick favorably.  For a time I approached writing with an arrogance.  I thought, because it was the only thing I got decent marks in, I must be good at it.  And then I got bad grades.  Still got good grades from time to time, but bad grades just as often, usually related to the technical composition and not the ideas.  And then I got good technical marks and bad ones on the formation of ideas.  Sometimes I did well with both.

It was a strange time.  I transitioned from writing on my own time and going to class and writing instead of doing homework to higher grades where writing was my only homework and all I did in classes.  The arrogance of perceived innate talent faded quite a bit with one failed attempt to win awards after another and I blamed closed communities and the like, the department was exceptionally cliquey.  I believed the profs liked what they liked and you liked what you liked and it was your job to jump the gap, not theirs.

I don't know what my problem is exactly, but I do believe it is that the people that I idolize make it look so effortless and what they make feels like hit after hit after God damn hit.  Maybe proliferation theory is failing me.  It's difficult to say either way.  Maybe I am genuinely no good.  It's tough to digest.  Without some kind of schedule.  I rolled up a dollar bill.  It's just strange, I guess.  Proliferation theory.  Asking when is good enough for me good enough for someone else.

The theory begs a lower standard, but how much is compromised in terms of value and personal expansion? Is the cost appropriate to the value of the product, the life time stamp I put my name to?  I don't know.  I do it predominantly for myself, at least that's what I've convinced myself of.  I don't know.  Would I kill to go back to school?  How many people?  Could I plea bargain my way out of life sentences and would the offer still be good when I got out?  I'd have to think about it.  Hypotheticals.

Yeah, it drives me crazy.  A little bit.  I try to think about what else I would be doing, could be doing.  None of it appeals to me the same way.  Everyone, including myself, well maybe not everyone, many people talk about being their harshest critic.  I may be my most passionate lover.  Delusions of grandeur coming with the territory, but I don't always see it so clearly.  The Fantha.  Losing focus on the mission.  I just want to die knowing I was good as I could possibly be, not knowing I was good as I was going to be.  Who wants that?

I think believing that I'm great keeps my engine running.  Keeps the clutch down and a hand on the shift knob for when I come running.  Beyond that, I don't know how much credence I give it.  I butcher language and muddle image on a weekly basis.  I talk like broke nosed sailor all too often and argue like a fifteen time concussed politico's son.  Pretty sure my mental dictionary has "turn to page 345"s on it and on page 345 there is a crayon hand drawn hairy dick in the corner.

Purpose is a fine commodity.  Take a digger.  Fire off the magazine, discharge, and throw it as far as you can.  Sometimes panic can be beautiful.  Never outwardly.  Did I tell you that I was you?  Don't be silly.  Don't be silly little king with your crown.  Let me polish that for you; you dropped it skipping puddles in gutters without your galoshes.  You know the ones with He-Man and Skeletor printed all over?  I'll remember for you.

Just behave, okay?

The project was, the final project was, to make a visual that encompassed everything you believed poetry to be.  Everything you believed poetry to be and the purpose it served.  They came in with their power points and dream catchers and God's eyes and a diorama of a village and someone made a painting and someone made a collage from printed magazines and there were a handful of abstract sculptures and even a figurine, but you made a life sized naval mine with trigger switches and detonators and wires out of empty wine bottles and paint brush handles and spray painted it black.  That was a fun walk across campus with that hugged to your chest.  Cutting across the grass, because the people on the sidewalk could go f--- themselves that early in the morning.  You worked on it all night after thinking about it for a week.  Everyone talked about their things and you talked about yours.  And that's where it ended.

Officially.  I suppose, the project is ongoing.  I hate myself.  I love myself.  I hate myself.  I'm sorry to drag you into it.  I don't know how else anything changes.  Contemplating the validity of ProT.


///Starkey - "Spacewalk" infolatice diver with a bad respirator.  the city is so vast and so uninhabitable so far beneath the waves

from a similar born year and different circumstance, but very little I haven't enjoyed while there: alicja-w-krainie-czarow