And as for me, as it happens: I is rolling, I is gathering the absolute bare minimum of moss possible. Personally, or so I reckon, personally I think: I am the mess that's left after the chinless world finally fucking decided to blow it's brains out, I is: the zombie stumbling through the rotting meat aisles of the supermarket,, complaining – and I am always with with the complaints —- complaining about the lack of vegetables and the supersaver vouchers avao;an;e;etc and so forth and on the advice of my counsel about this. this: that, and, you know, and the other thing.

What the fuck? Do I look like I care? About whatever platinum the calculator condescends to give me as sweet apple source privilege of whatever reminder arithmetic happens to be left over after the long division is finished it's workings.

Honestly, some days I think: what the fuck am I doing? why am wasting so much goddamn time? I should, really, just get this shit over and done with, slip, strangle my way via the noose into the suffocation of legend. Bang! But no. still, still I subsist, a wood carving living on the chainsaw snores of dreams.