Another travelogue masking the red death?
Not today. Every now and then, social vertigo sets in like I don't know where I'm supposed to be who I am.
The writer is detailing plots and puts self on a shelf for shell games to sell shellfish by the seashore.
So, Becky, you missed me at my best. No, I wasn't at the Herzogs for a beer tasting.
I was testing settings for bringing in my network to offer protection insurance.
The Xfred Armisen lookalike shook me back into reality as those around me imagined it to be although it wasn't.
The hiking trip up and down Sycamore Canyon with parakeets and ocean mists slipped off the shelf and crashed onto my memory of self.
It's just business, I know, but where does the profit go?
The killing fields by Perry Como, perhaps. Or Bernie Madoff selling pyramids to Ashley Simpson.
Don't assume you're moving produce just because people are buying storytellers.
I ought to know.
Ten thousand years ago, we started this line of reasoning and can't get the seasoning out of the melting pot.
My programmers gave me a future I don't want but it'll make the Committee happy.
My self will have to wait for myself. Just repeat "I don't exist" and keep the stealth UAVs flying drafts like condors and lookalike private aircraft that we tend to ignore. Drug drops or citizen tracking, u know it's the same humour.
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