Uninspirable

Couldn't do courier, much as I wanted to, too obnoxious a font for blocks of text.

Mundane miracles. Routine wonders. Hard to get a spike on any telemetry. A reading. A hearing.

The most natural expression is to say there is soreness, dryness, like tight skin around my lips, I dunno. The meaning of that sentence is like a hook dangling accidentally from some large and hidden machine I can't comprehend the mechanics of, that runs, or fails, on the skills of a maintenance crew unknown to me. I don't even know how there can be enough maintenance people to keep those things running, or why I never see them, or how they get by.

Bust out, then bug out, cause it's all so worthless, nothing moreso than your bust and bug cycle, useless to fellows. Food drive for the maintenance crew. Third eon iteration. Bearded baldie turned tommyknocker. Please let there be no will in this. Don't let me be free cause I can't own this shit. Let it just be noisy prophecy that's like a pile of dust in the darkness on the chasm floor thousands of feet below the tile that crumbled and Indiana Jones nearly tumbled in, because he stepped on the wrong letter that didn't spell out the name of God. It's still part of things. And the natural rebound of energy can cave in, and we can manufacture more soreness to join the legion of lesions, make lids heavy even when they should not be for fuck's sake, and beckon to dreams, make another horizon an event, waste, ablate, stymie

you and i and dominoes, i used to say things straight out, back when i could type, when keyboards didn't get in my way, when they seemed to know where i wanted to go, and i could hit the "o" key without thinking about it... oh, this keyboard feels misshapen, and for all that, this is a poor simulacrum of, see, there isn't even a word for it... but it's obvious anywhey, uhhl.