My lungs are not leather yet. I need to chat, in text, not talk, can't do voice. Voice is fucked.

Affirmation mode leads to delirium, unfortunately. And delirium doesn't lend itself to dabbling. But dabble I do, for now, in the moment, gotta. Gotta make some hash out of this life. And listen to a Deep-Purpleish jam I played with Nelson and Malik. Consuming makes me sad, lately, but doing something is just a little better, there's a little magic in that.

Weird substitutes I partake in with little rations of the real thing. And bombed. Changed everything.

LENSE tickler, and lenticular invigilator spokesperson for spooky ventricles trickling facile with facility down a river of  - creeper with myself - personalize porn - the affectionate nickname

hoping for later iterations of virtual reality technology to holodeck-ize my aspirations for possibility of fun and custom-design self-monument, monatize that shit, sherlock, in a monastic way

hazing out of sleep in the day in this latimer place is surreal, half-in-half-out of the dream with house noises of all stripes, hyper communicative floor whispering into fruedian constructs in psycho-hydraulics, and with all that going on, my personalized pan asmr playlist feeding me lecture-tinged dreams, solving trig problems in ancient egypt with herodotus

Can't do that venue of the half email.