as much as i need sleep, the compulsion to write is as consistent as anything ever was and then again, tonight, same as it ever was tonight, tonight, same as it ever was again, and now, again and again as if the language molds itself to the mood and the conditions of the mind in abstract constructs or rational reasons or both moving in linear and circular and expanding in all directions at once (what is the word for that, aye?), outward and inward and universal, even, as if that is some ultimate concept (as laughter comes from the multiverses) what?...
the painted ponies still go round and round...
so when i should have been asleep hours ago (and maybe could have too), here we are again (on our own)... again and again and again and then, again ...
narf too :)
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