Another day’s

dollop dropped on another repetition's self-awareness, becoming summing, like the gerund form of rapid fentanyl math. Don't do it. Not worth it. The game's game tames the blam-o, editing itself out as it goes so that the forgetting becomes netting that always sticks, always stuck. The tense will not save anyone, no matter the accuracy. Give the night its blue, Joan. You nailed us, didactically, and we assay once again all that we can spread out of our memories, and eat them.