1. Snow can fall every day.

2. Snow can fall every day, but on some days, perhaps every day, you are in a cave.

3. Imagine you are in a cave every day. Now, consider that snow can fall every day.

4. Boredom is the project of being bored. It is one's choice to engage in nothing or engage in something muted and confused, that does not engage the stronger instincts. Hard work doesn't fall in your lap, it doesn't confront you, it isn't given to you. Hard work is created. What we create engages us. Boredom, any feeling at all, is a product, and the only productive factor is creation. Bring something from the outside to help with the story and the explanation doesn't work

5. Those who value solitude have built something well and return to it often. Those who cannot bear it chase after these well-built universes, hoping to shake something from the tree. What falls in their basket will never satisfy them.

Men of Arms

So two adventurers no doubt, dr Metalchromegetsyouhome (4130), and professor inthebasementthereislifting. Both extrapolate on the favorite reification of today's adventure: the woman possesses the secret of who these heroes are, but they want none of it. It is a conflict for which they are prepared to die but a war not worth winning, yet a war that they return to in spare moments. They dig trenches and hang photos. Years pass. Comrades are gassed in the fields and lay hung, opened by large caliber wounds, on the razor wire fences which welcome each night's recovery from absorbing this other. They wish to be identified by the other's freedom, but do they want a part of letting that freedom fall where it lands and hope that the secret, soon to be revealed, is a good one? Or is the apprehension of her freedom a big scam, do they condition the animal to roll over on command but know at the periphery of each thought that the beast will tear the neck apart for fun and for amusement? There is a war on how they make us and we make them. Pack it up and you know you've lost. Get in formation, start the aerial raid, let loose your 20mm anti tank munitions, and you know it's an invisible target, a charade. It's a hell, a fucking blast, and what's this, oh shit, a green commodity based currency. The fucking arms trade infects everything, even my kitchen drawer.

Rollin: Inspired by 4130's study in 4 images, "Breadcrumbs"

Meaning of images:

All good nights begin with solid currency. Not fiat currency. This would freak out Moraline and he'd fucking post a Von Mises treaty. No, these chips are backed by booze, which is more ancient and rooted in value, commerce, and balling than any other substance. So the night begins with solid currency, and you are on a solid foundation. What's next. Well men and women like to get naked and get to know each other. It is a different conversation, one about one's primordial roots, roots going back further than booze itself and the solid currency which eventually backed the liquid substance. The cat killer would be fun naked, she would say something different when naked, but not 'said' in some correlate of text and all that it misrepresents. No, she would finally say something lasting. And the conversation, should we slyly denote such as conversation, would go for quite a distance, because it's obvious she's rollin. Scarlett looks like she wants to bite your lips off. Those bee-stung facial labia scream for meaning--'make meaning from the abyss I chase' is what they scream as common as as the black nitrogen froth of Guinness. I see eyes, surprise, tongue, style, wonder, all preemptive gestures to calm the gyroscope, to set it right. As she chooses her music, she is being watched. The other, you, in this case, shatters her intentions, and now it's a play of how is he watching me as I am aware of how I am being watched. It is now a trial, administrative law, kangaroo court, she wants the charges to stick or be thrown out, just let the night last long enough for the cold spring of Irish whiskey to, as chollie would say, drink, to drink and be whole beyond confusion.

What's this them 4 weeks

Went out for a run.
On the second lap, 2 led fast and the Australian eventually dropped me. As I waited for the other runners, 2 females collected in waiting. One caught the eye, but I decided to depart and head home. I turned around and instead headed to the eating joint where the running people meet. It was there over Chinese food I talked her up and got her email, some innocuous, less direct intrusion. I emailed her and told her I could show her around, at least maybe just give some advice to her, at the most maybe even run with her. Emailed her that night. She emailed back day later. She accepted an invitation to eat food. Ate, spoke, drank some booze. Coffee next afternoon. It was a good coffee, because it was 1/2 good legs--my legs--from a run and bike ride that morning and 1/2 good Americano. She was there too. Then next Saturday a random engagement with an old pal's ex, she drank of the banana cognac, waited in listless vacuity until pool came, snow fell and intercourse was realized in a Subaru. More meals followed, more sad looks of longing, and then an empty car unfulfilled and a long drive away in passing. That's all I have to say fellas, that was that.

summer

Lost on dark Broadway, the morning came. How can I speak of dry wells when this summer morning has come so early. It was just last Tuesday when I watched snow fall on Emerson. The mountain is not less welcoming in the murmured black of winter. No, each night the cold, alone, offered its friendship. Standing on worn ice, I've never felt it closer.