One quarter of an hour to six in the morning and it's just me and a bag of helianthus annuus achenes. Five point two five ounces of lip searing, mouth blistering deliciousness. Long ignored web log nags and Joanna Newsom's until diligence is inured. A busy month of nothing but independent cinema restlessness, life evaluation and genital chafing lends itself to not enough good stuff for suant creation. That is to say; no shit done, no shit written. Quasi-truth. Many sessions of simulated musicality with Smelly and The Kid peppered with the occasional fondling of Lady Vapor account for time spent constructively, not including time spent constructing excuses for not being constructive. I'm no Bob the Builder. Ten minutes to six in the morning. As the six hundred eighty eighth best guitar simulation performer, I've little time for writing. There's not getting laid to be done.
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