In The Slush

Tonight enacted, lather, rinse, repeat, repeat. Shabam-mode.

A grin to a nudge is just the friend of a glance to a raised eyebrow or some such.

The contrast between masks is shocking, dizzying at times. AAH!

All this stepping leads somewhere good, right? I don’t need to know, but it would make me happy if I did I suppose.

Like I said, blah blah send the fucking probe. No one out there in whatever market, nebula or quadrant gives a flippity-fuck about me and my stupid fucking probe.

I have to try a little, that seemed inexcusable in light of bemoaning the state. Right?

Glancing is not trying. Glancing is trying to trick sorrow into having hope, while choking out any chance of there being any.

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