Absurdities and complaints bring me here today. These are cures for yearning, I think, due to the discomfort and sometimes stasis such fragile feelings leave me in. Chronic pain in the mind, bandaided by cleverities and snark. Cleveritis? Ow, my inflamed wit is flaring up again. Symptomatic auto-response to my forty-third memory bleed of the day. Stuck as I am from time to time in the screaming room, still I must say that such things remain utopian pastimes. I am after all not ducking tanks or planning to cook the cat.
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You’ve a wonder-filled way of seeing the world (that’s how it seems to me anyway).
Images are an essential part of any good writer’s repetoire (is that how it’s spelled? or does it even matter?), and I think you’re far beyond many people I’ve met.
And, please, never cook the cat!
I humbly thank you! And do not worry, no matter how starving I ever might be, I would never cook my four-legged muses in loose-fit pyjamas, who are constantly commenting to me about wine.