Stale Hell coming right up, kittens:
After seeing that photo, I just want to go back to bed and dream myself to warm places, warm night. Balmy nights that smell like growing things and cooling asphalt and sweaty sheets.
Yesterday, I wrote a paltry 1,015 words on "The Living and Their Stillborn."
Sonya was coming to visit tomorrow, but I had to put her off again, thanks to a combination of my difficulty working and having so many long-ago-missed deadlines I'm trying to catch up to...or something.
Last night, I wandered back into SL, looking for all the wrong sorts of nostalgia. I was in a delirium of melancholy. I don't fucking know. I'm told the General IQ dropped still farther in my long absence. Comprehension of the fundamentals of RP have, apparently, become even harder to comprehend. It was all very bittersweet. I spent hours – literally hours – walking what's left of Insilico. I spoke with a few old virtual acquaintances. Four, to be precise. It was good to "hear" their "voices." I hadn't been that social since August.
This isn't going well, is it?
Baby, baby, baby,
* I've never understood why people bitch about DST. And now roughly two-thirds of the year is on DST. For most of America, it's the norm.