because it shouldn't matter if my attempts to be emotive are fruitless, and i can only articulate things politically when i need to be a PROVIDER OF SENTIMENT, sorry because i was unexpected and nothing much has changed because making sense can be the biggest fallacy of our corporate ordained conservative-reared generation because i try to contrive vessels for my SPIRITUAL APPETITE, because i have so much to achieve and create and i have a nice margharita recipe, because i am STILL not revealing anything because this has been fabricated in an impromptu fashion because nothing i write is ever eloquent or elegant or tidily composed, it's all STACKS and PILES and rows, missed line, row& a line of violin in Ab minor, interspersed with a camel petticoat falling apart at the threads and his tobacco remains in the crevices of MY copyof "the house of pomegranates" i haven't had a chance to read yet, and disorganised CLUTTER and fainting sheets of half-finished boring letters and i really should go for my degree at some point because my preoccupations are transferring and metamorphosing and i am enamoured by most things, either not-enough or too much and i have things i just need to do:
develop prints at the one hour place& purchasing shit scotch or something equally generic from the gas station next door sleep in my car on its torn beige upholstery, because life is a culmination of beautiful points and the exposition of new phases and excerpts.

[these are not really answers, but just punctuations that have pilfered three minutes of my morning]

"shortcomings (putting it mildly) that will not be conquered, rather than dormancy only to grip me suddenly in the midst of mundane tasks like dressing or dish washing...askewed view& nothing is ever enough to keep us quiet. but why should it be?"