temporarily absent, divorced from what matters.
mah ... who cares?
solve intellectual questions, my garden is the global network: small insects flying around bored one shrub to another.
and I still. mass of sweaty and thoughtful.
but the sun has the patience of the world: there will certainly be tomorrow, yet tomorrow again, and the day after that, and so for (almost) forever.
just us so miserable to be afraid, to fear the weather, the end, death.
yes, it will seem a paradox, but now is the salvation of the notes and immerse yourself into oblivion in the warmth of midsummer.
that mean? have faith in my dear companion body here that reminds me that it still exists, and wins him over all that stuff digitally on all those virtual illusions: "fuck, it's me, your knees and without me going anywhere Part. "
in leg no?
