[click image]Indeed. From what illness will [s]he die?
Goya has a way of saying things to me, for me, sometimes I think.
My basement office in Berkeley is completely askew with a great recording process in progress and so I cannot hook up my machine. I've been dealing with a perfidiously weak old thing airported upstairs and it does not want to work. My whole gig online is not doable as long as this holds up. I have to steal the modem from the mess downstairs, or buy an airport card, or forget my blog and your blog and sundry other obligations for a while. I am vexed.
I had to crawl around under dusty desks and sundry incarnations of electronica, mostly obsolete, stomp on some of them, rip out plugs and wires, spit while standing on my head and stomp my foot three times to get this far. So. I will be around. Or. I will not. It is up to those damn Fates.
I just tried to take my night pills, but took my morning ones instead. Luckily I realized the error before I swallowed. So now I have a wet load of morning pills in a spit wad all ready for the morning.....






































































No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.