Black clouds are in the east like an ominous Parliament of Foules. And I've got my impermeables ready for the downpour. Hunkering down is like returning to the same sweetness seven days a week or sticking your face into an upturned umbrella, dark, stuffy and comfortable.
But woah Nelly! I'm at it again. Brains unwinding like a spool or thread or a skipping record, "sometimes behave so strangely" (ad infinatum). I'm old behind my time in the ways of you post-modern performance artists and post-post modern hunky-a-burning tire boys.
Instead of living outright, I dream I am a superhero's slave. Black cape, bondage gear and the rest. Top spin on the table during a convocation of murderers. I will kill you with the extreme end of my knife-blade fan.
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