The faintest ink is better than the best memory

Don't reach out, don't go there, stay in here, inside, dig, down, deep.

Stop telling others this or that. Tell whatever void's gotta be told what's what.

Running from any edges that get me edgy -

Draft it, draft a draft, draft it. Music still sounds senseless. Swagger turned to stumble. Sty in eye of universe. Too exposed. Like the shows I'm watching. Or just a delusion. I hope so. It's just youtube. It doesn't matter. It's not as cool, I see through it. But that extends to everything, self, all of the slaked slated tiles of everything that's so terribly necessary to say.

Unproductive stupormania stumbles on. There's a good soundtrack. Maybe I need to fuel in the daylight. Paul Butterfield. The guy I was supposed to care about. Now I gotta.