The Block

Allison Goldfrapp, I’d like to hear you say there’s no time to fuck to my face.
Thank you for appearing on my iTunes at this particular moment.

On an unrelated note, either I am subconciously aware of what my computer is doing judging by the noise of disk activity or by newsensory awareness of some other sub-real form of heat it is emanating, or I am TELEKINETICALLY AFFECTING THE RANDOM PLAYBACK OF ITUNES.
AmAnSet on my iTunes now, just when I was thinking of them.

Tim and a Sabrina stopped by for a couple of early morning hours. The chilling was good. That beautiful kraut is always a new kind of treat with knives out. Or the same kind of treat with knives out every time.

I spent most of the evening reading before they got here, and I think I’ll finish the article I was working on before I finally do retire this early Sunday morning. Maybe I’ll go have a diner breakfast at the crack of dawn before I do, though.

The block and the distance around it and how fast I can go on my bike. I spent a lot of time alone as a kid, thinking on my bike, in something like a square mile around my house in the East Bluff. It only just now, as I was going to write about something else, occurred to me that maybe all that time spent out in the city alone was maybe a little odd for a kid, with 90% of my time out of the house spent happily daydreaming and moving.

But, before I do forget

the block as a space with corners drawing long, boring lines in total ignorance of the violent broken-mirror trees irrupting and turning fractally up and down through the visible air and the invisible mud, lightning striking twice but always decapitated while the neutrino sees nothing
but what block do these desirous creatures crawl around in flat slicks of colors and musk, marking them with the meant fingerprints that I wish I had been there first to paw on them?