Reciting continuity for the melancholic grieving monster is sadly my temporary ribbing fact.  I suppose this is a trademark condition most of us possess and the beauty of a tomorrow in the rising reverse of our yesterdays.

The cure for this brew has surrendered with a couple of art shows in the City. Which of course require me to change my gears and act human. The level of consciousness between my friends and I are frightening, there is simply nobody home, no remote satellite connection, and to think they breed, and have or are having babies. Awful for saying this but so godly true. Tonight I will go against my Doctor theory and observe the calamity of other artists. Rejoice in their madness, before I turn into a pumpkin.  

Goodnight to those who orbit my timed space, and good morning for those who have seem my tomorrow.

Peace . .