Gravel Gertie couldn't even correct the heading of the train to Phulphilment. It had a mind of its own. Fortunately it was the right direction and it has a bud car. I'm on it now and the ambiance is canine out of ten. On the shelf behind the hookah is a trophy for Best Feline Sphincter - a catastrophe.

The plodding hulking seagull made no sense until the dream ended. Some variation on Ben Braddock looking up at the sun proved to be the reminder: just a drop in the universe's bucket. Adrenalin flowed when drip hit the frontal lobe at mid-pre-dawn. Slinking around the property at 3am killed any chance of falling back to sleep. <- that's the excuse for any dithering at all today.

There is no trope any more for September. Suddenly it just is - September. <- that's the sign I got nuthin' yet today except Vulcan hands. The mind is kinda one trick but it's the one that can only handle sporadic flaws that don't dock the boat. So far just WPP. And the difference between a V and a W when discussing melting in my arms and what to use to clean up is a 10 laugh.