I have been burning up inside lately.  Churning.  Boiling like a steam-powered engine.

Sometimes this produces idle frustration -- the kind where I stare blankly at the ceiling (or a pair of breasts walking by) and slip into a sort of brain-freezed autism -- the sort of autism where the breasts stare back at you and unveil the meanings of things -- of truth, of life, of places and things.  This of course, cannot be shared with anyone I know.  No one would ever believe I stare at breasts.

I am almost too tired to move.  So much in my brain to type, and I cannot type it.  Not that it's any big loss to the world -- but, sooner or later, I would like to get back to writing and blogging and goofing around on motime again.  Something to make me feel more alive.  I haven't felt much of anything at all lately, except physical pain and fatigue -- save for those momentary bouts of intense pleasure brought about by bodily friction and fluid exchange....