Those mornings so celine that you can put away the tuning fork are these days of May. The current reticulated attention span insists on constantly checking the focus which fortunately stays crisp. Ponder easily becomes bursts of thought chunks relying on multi-neuropaths which somehow work best if you wake up before the sunrise and end the day before the sun sets

Placid vista d'alene rippling with landings choreographically stuck resonate more than that shit. She concierges, she's a gourmet-goddess, she rescues, she therapizes, tantalizes and most of all . . . . wait, what's she doing?

Circling the tail of 25 poses an ex-contender begging to answer "what's next?" Closing in on the solution, who but the grounded reverse-recidivist would even hint there's a next? When the missing-for-years became here it also snuggled with eternal..