the birds are once more twittering on the window-sill; the sky is blue and the cold easterly seems to have lost its chilling force.
my hands are still trembling violently as I attempt, once more, to put my thoughts inadequately into words. three cups of strong black coffee have not contributed in any positive way to my burgeoning inner clam, or calm even. that accidental yet enlightening typo has revealed a useful perspective from which to assess my mental state. the said mollusc's closed condition indicating its effort to fortify its defences against unwelcome threats, and then opening to take in, once more, the promise of nourishment and freedom to flourish in it's own little world. until some bastard scoops it up and eats it.
this morning's turd has not, as yet, announced its imminent arrival so I will go and perform my overdue ablutions sans that implied evacuation.
evidently, there is no crap to mar the developing day's progress . . .
what's left of it
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