Still (sur)Rendering

All great truths begin as blasphemies.
George Bernard Shaw
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There is nothing to read here. The content is over there, to your right.

I may, however, at some point, put something here. Some day. Eventually. No pressure.


floating

Going for simple. Spring cleaing my way out of the suffocating complexity that my life has seemingly become. Too much time, too many formless thoughts, not enough foundation.




Scribbling. Sketching. Composing silly love letters that have no intended reader. Blue india ink stains on the table cloth, on my fingertips. My hands look well used.




In some parallel universe I'm doing the very same thing I'm doing right now: typing, having to use the backspace key all too frequently and amusing myself with thoughts about alternate realities.

Is it odd that I feel a little pity for there-myself but not for the here-myself? If I could send some cosmic, spacetime defying message to there-myself, what should the here-myself say? "It's ok, you're going to be fine" or "You already know about the potential, about bridging that gap between fantasy and reality, so go do it!" A little pep talk maybe, about abilities and goals and not starting over but starting from there-here?

Maybe I'd just send a postcard with "Wish you were here-here!" scribbled on the back.

heh.

Such thoughts.




Both the spawn made the honour roll this term. This pleases me greatly - "Darwin's World Domination" plans can only be carried out by the most intelligent of minions.

We're on our way.

more later.


soundtrack:white noise of printer on stand-by mode


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