Speed suggests itself, much like a vine-ripened orange jello might.
If it weren’t for the stupid blockage of progress here, I might be inclined to insinuate myself into a World War II movie sort of pantomime.
Was this important to write? No, but it was important to write.
I haven’t always written as much as this, but now I miss it when it doesn’t happen.
Missing things reminds me of endless sheets of mystical tar paper, stretched across a stressful moment when the phone has just rung and no one quite knows which particular style of jazz the group is playing, or where the singing fat lady hid the tomato bisque flavored Life Savers.
An elderly philosopher with blue hair in Wendy’s cries “Where’s the belief?!”
Portability seems overrated, until you need to pick it up and take it somewhere.
And then… And then… And then…