Feedback

Not that I expect anything. That's not why I write. I only write because I have to. The only possible explanation. Why else would you? It's so much easier just to accept a job and do whatever it is. Shoot whatever mother-fucker it was. Oh, excuse me. Sorry, I've got some personal shit I have to deal with. End of life issues and wether or not I need to leave for Florida right now. I've been on the phone all night and I hate the phone, I'd rather pick up dog-shit with latex gloves and a Kroger sack, in a public park, than carry on a conversation where I can't see the other person. I tried to call the museum twice, to tell them I was preoccupied. D calls, he's on the road, picking up artwork from a ceramic person in Cleveland, and I hope he relays a message to Pegi. I'm not trying to be difficult. Oddly, I'm completely transparent. If you die, and they bring you back to life, are you the same person? What I find is a plethora of situations. I don't know who to be. Cain or whoever that other guy was. Abraham held the blade. I only eat road-kill because it's available and I made jam long before it was fashionable. Backlit leaves might stop me for a second, the way the light plays, but who you are is a matter of public notice, not unlike that public "A". which seemed to mean something. A madder of choice.