. Stroking a message on the phone isn’t without challenges like scraping earwax via a mirrored reflection or retrieving a foreign object from a youngster's nostril, no matter how hard one must continue, then on and on, anxiety, frustration, delusions of inadequacy. If I were younger or born just last week, this situation would not exist … no matter what, we’re screwed. A phantom Ming-the-Merciless wins. We become consumed, storied with soft porn for the soul, and get tales of adversity confused with star-studded stupidity — probability with the impossible. A miracle of Hollywood maybe. So here I sit on yet another long and lonely Sunday, sketching a few lines, reading a poem or two, catching some breaking news. I think about all people as a castaway, even things out the way simplicity often does when sophistication has us wrapped in ice, exquisite splendour and the wrong kind of longing, a kind you feel but fail to see. I love chocolate and become convinced colour has nothing to do with little black folks on the back of the bus, eggs for Easter or the lowest-cost existence that feeds and keeps failure at bay yet renders millions more to the mundane and madness. That classic delusional model so few explain because of defeat or despair. The leap looks good today. Forever On The Brink **Congratulations extended here to the Eric Blair Estate for Animal Farm et al. for being made a storied coin of the realm in the United Kingdom (Presser: 01.13.2025)** .
