mysteries to solve and sleep on well on the first sunday in december, why a bizarre face reminded me of the past last night, and why the cat is up at five and expects a weekday in its ignorance of weekends.
The cusp of the week, a waves peak, we are there and things will get steadily worse before they get much better.
A jam has much to do with an iamb, breakfast on sunday, food for thought. Broken pentameters are melodies of a destructured mind destroyed by dislux spurious wisdom of the personal pronoun in its inebriated state citing its private desires in an open space. Wisdom is not in the soul. Heavy and costly,the understanding that the next ones show is of more interest to that one than the show you put on for him.
Nine thirty, final rising before bedtime, the whole problem is this unbalanced treadmill.
Hamsterrad unwuchtig, nagetierstolperfalle
#ouch
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