Author: LA Fogle
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Word Art – Love
“Love “— word art created for a Valentine’s Day gallery show at Secret Studio. The first letter of each line creates an acrostic. -
A New Orc State of Mind
To say orc is a bit dramatic but technology is moving so fast. I thought things were challenging when analog went digital. Or when Pro Tools went HD. USB would like a word with Firewire and ethernet is still in the cord/dongle/adaptor pile. My basement is an audio gear graveyard. I almost started a nonprofit to host a museum of gear—because I like gear, properties, preservation, and nonprofits; and this industry keeps chasing me out of comfort zones and into deliberating over new streams of revenue.
“A New Orc State of Mind” Abstract black-and-white ink drawing by L.A. Fogle. Tools and Dependencies
Now I’m trying to update my own website, which is not something I’m motivated to do as the topic of myself is not brand news. Posting about what is done may or may not lead to new clients or streams of income. But I have the WordPress theme locked-in blues. I staged full site editing but am not yet seeing an elegant method of relinking the past. There are good methods, but it feels like something better is just around the corner in light of the astounding tools appearing daily.
Impression Management Coding
I got to review vibe coding apps and could feel my hair move from the whisper of the gods. I fear them too, of course, and approached it with trepidation. The very term vibe code is swappy indeed; so imagine my surprise when one of my big ideas became an overnight reality. Do I lock in this idea and monetize? Or is everything leading to a career shift that answers what I want to do with my life now that so many of the skills I have learned in media can be economically replaced with text prompts.
I look back at my attempts to turn voiceover work into a model that could be supported outside a major city by adapting to long format narration. I practiced earnestly as my experience in pedagogy and vocal anatomy stepped forward: adapted appoggogio to drop-in breath, shifted mic technique to pocket breath, practiced pranayama to increase lung capacity at rest; listened to accents, tone, subtext, mannerisms, and got to the point where I could cold read on the fly, lock in characters once they spoke, and do this for hours without much need for edit. Then the narration model was essentially erased by AI. Here’s a quote I wrote before the reality hit me:
“The work is challenging, steady, and exciting. You are never in the same place twice and constantly challenged with maintaining hyper focus on the story, the characters, the breath, inflection, and emotions. There’s an internal reward I did not get from the short sale of commercials. I love this work.”
How naive. I regret nothing. But now too there seems little point in chasing composition, sound design, sonic restoration, or leveling up on video work. The tools that make that easy are everywhere now. Like many industries, mine has always been in constant flux. Small businesses and freelancers have operated in a constant state of diversification, adaptation, upskilling, reselling, new-skilling, cross-skilling, over-skilling, and general skilling.
But I never thought I’d see everyone face their fears of obsolescence. They are usually safe in domain-specific systems, often mistaking vertical hierarchies therein as relevant to other systems.
I get it. It took me years to get over these kind of systems that controlled my very sense of self and what to want from this gift of existence. The way through came from this: Now is the time to let art humanize us. This weekend I may record the city as a listening organism. Collect sounds as evidence of attention, labor, care, neglect, power, and memory. Score Billie Blake’s brothel bricks; the clatter of the pickax tracks—linear layers of crack and smite.
EXT. DAY – STONEHENGE – DAY ONE.
VID: E.C.U. – STONE.
SOUND: hear the truth bell ring of solid stone; or the false flat thud of quarry sap and inner crack. The rising pitch toward the finished edge, and the deep crunch shift before a split—we interrupt this mix for a client call!
I should check my other email–oh look, 26 new emails: power struggle, power struggle—this one might be fun. Nope. This next one is talking from a kingdom far away that will soon fall from internal cracks; muffled dull noun says what? I’d comfort whatever anxiety is happening there but that often leads to people thinking you are the audience or work for them. Put enough of these folks in a room together and the resonance is an ambisonic, spatial god bark death knell.
AI and Machine-Learning Sound Design Tools
I lost my thread there and don’t have to get it back. I’ll likely harvest my own data here for a story; that’s usually what happens once a thing is thought out on (e)paper. I was getting back to the great disruptor with a guilty admission. I like the AI and machine-learning sound design tools. There, I said it. I do not want bots to just sound design the scene unless it means I can go work on my new City As A Living Organism idea or finish the next great American novel. But I like being able to change sonic materials without running down the hallway to fetch field gear. Choose thy stone material from the dropdown menu. Granite: ping; the vibrations travel up the anvil into my unyielding arm. That visual is crisp, metamorphic marble; tink tink, Michelangelo.
“Perception is not a science of the world; it is the background from which all acts stand out.”
~ Phenomenology of PerceptionWhen learning new things becomes uninteresting, I give it bursts of energy. This retains focused attention without lowering into a dulling frequency. Today, writing is a better use of my time than breaking out of this an old website theme. The tool will come to easily link and vamp old material without dwelling there. Instead, I direct energy into new branches, like selective pruning. I recently wrote a chapter where the character looked back; it was a struggle to avoid reminders of shared collective stories, such as looking back turning a person into a “pillar of salt.”
What’s it called? You know the story. The one where Ado’s husband and her daughters were in the lead and she was turned into a pillar of salt. I forget his name. A lot of it is confusing, as the collective myth is a hodgepodge lark, possibly from Eurydice remaining in hell because Orpheus looked back. I wish these stories that become go-to metaphors for getting past rumination didn’t have such paralyzing consequences. Still, I’m with Eurydice on this one. Roll out the hero’s gurney.
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Narcissist In Every Butt Hair, Part II. From FutureYou, stardate 12/07/2023.
Did it ever cross your mind that you sound like a fourth grader mimicking her hover-mom when you start sentences with “Did it ever cross your mind?” If I want noise, I’ll just join a neighborhood forum or the PTA. They don’t know a lot about the world but a reenactment? That they know. Further and more, I only chose a pen name so I could later sue myself as a publicity stunt. My past planned that shroud out. I’m an idiot in the rain who feels too much to share the weather in realtime and that the only way to stay in some graces is to fall on the sword a lot. Death by a 1000 stabs.
They are so strong to reach me here at the University. These walls were built to keep out such things. But some interference isn’t even random. Not even a request for reception but a constant until answered. Yeah? What’s so merry about it? We’re not in a snow globe together, so you do have the option to mind your own business. Excuse you? Better a red nose than a brown nose. Ho ho to you, too. Just try to recall any good moment and get through it without going through anyone to come to terms.
This was a dumb ritual and why did they pick this one anyway? What manger maker or ass herder chose this story?
“Excuse me.”
It can be shocking to hear people actually speak these days. They tend to only respond through social media channels. We used to get some relief from pretending to forget all of the passwords, but they sorted all that out finally. It was a blessing followed by a curse. This was a tier 3 student who demanded the respect due to what in my day we called earned.
“Some of us don’t know how to tune out thoughts. Can you stop thinking? I can’t tell what I’m supposed to download for the test.”
This should’ve been a moment for other students to react out of escaping authority and the powerlessness of adolescence. But no one else even looked up. I won’t bore you with a description. It isn’t important. “It’s Becky, correct?” I jotted down Becky — leak, bit of a jerk while humming the school anthem and thinking about food. “Becky, download the Golden Bough and give me five holiday rituals. Now. While you’re sitting here. Projection detection is on: keycode keycode: moon river five three seven pyre. Word of the day is blank.” Even the act of thinking can save you from some Tik Tok videos.
If you don’t write it down, then I won’t be able to retrieve it efficiently from a new body. It is from me and there’s no other author. No other authority. No twist of logic applies. No after death release to the public. No publishers clearence. No lottery. No hope-based scam. They’ll do what they always do and hold off until someone better recognizes your work.
“My God, have you always been this long in the wind?” Dr. Bell-Shite appeared to be actually asking this question.
I squirmed in my deliberately uncomfortable chair. I must’ve drifted off and said something annoying or at least to which he was annoyed. “Is this not normal?” I bit off the follow up question of if it bothered him. Fifty years ago he would have just snapped his pencil, but it’s 2044 and I kind of can’t think he knows he can’t keep his thoughts from me. That’s why I was cred confused on if this was actually asked or I had picked it up.
“I’m afraid we’re not making any progress,” Dr. Bell-Shite said. “I think it’s time we get you to another therapist.”
“I’m sorry! Dr Bell-Shite, wait! What if I go to therapy. Or, what if we both go to relationship therapy?”
Dr Bell-Shite’s lips starting moving but I couldn’t understand what was being said. It might’ve been I’m calling security or fostering a sense of security or mine calling vonce purity. It didn’t matter because I was already in our session with the add-on therapist.
Doctor, Dr. makes me feel like he’s writing everything down to use against me.
“Use against you how?” Doctor said before he looked at me so the chronology of this statement is already messed up.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Statistically? Or, ish, research for cabals of universities or Hollywood?” I was worried about the first reaction or the second one that could mean I’m gonna have to go somewhere that is badly designed throughout the halls and the minds of its inhabitants.
“That’s why you’re here.” Dr Doctor’s doctor looked at me in a way that very well could have solved my maladjustments if there was a better backing adhesive to the theory and the heart. I have to get straight on identifying new breakthrough aide versus run-of-the-mill authority and muzzle the jackals who believe they’ve earned the right to comandeer the autonomy of another. It’s a widely ignored form of abuse. Historically, we call these issues but if someone runs a certain obstacle course then we hand them the keys to being worse than anyone we’d chosen to befriend. Clinical conundrum.
“Okay, right. Just please help me find the right pills.” I took out my laptop and started typing. “I’m writing everything down so I don’t forget and can journal about it later.” Like you two except with a sense of humor. Honestly, it feels like they’re just monitoring me to behave normally and yet they requested I open up and throw my guts all over the place just to pack it all right back up. Is this the exhaustion method? Where I become too exhausted to complain? Where does all this material go? To God, to Hollywood, to a Cabal Ball where dance routines are tithes and we have to leave by the stroke of midnight so we don’t see the therapists turn into neurotic children who tested okay, playing Fisher-Price’s My First Novel full of comforting tropes about ERROR.
I’m tired. All of this brain activity makes me want to shame spiral out where it’s safe. No, sleep. No, write something constructive, which I was trying to do. AIssistant, let’s back up. What was I constructing originally?
Hi, thanks for asking. Here are more words before we get to your answer. Construction is the building of something.
Thanks, AIssistant. I can’t keep up the italics here but let’s hone in on my previous question with more specific words. What was I creating before tangenting off into a bit about therapists? Three dots? Wait, never mind, I looked it up myself. Thank you for your help. Please have a wonderful day. I look forward to the inevitable backlash of all of these uber polite emails I’ve been getting. I did not realize how long students have been using ChatGPT until I used it. Assumably some very polite students later forgot speaking to me. Thanks, AIssistant. Can I call you Hal Friday? One more thing, can we round up all of the marketing bores who deduced that SEO needed 300 word minimums to be what the people want? Quality over quantity is what the people want. Quality over quantity. Hashtag Qoq. Hashtag wasted life. HashTag circle of hell. Ha, shh, tag, you’re it. Hashtag HashBrownie. HashBroTagBro. Hoshtag TypeO. Hoshtag backward: goths against the hemoglobin shortened for brevity.
AIssistant, can you redo Fantasia? But make the whole thing the original Hollywood cabal ritual. Kidding, ha ha, but an extreme parody is where the coins hang out. Imagine reimaging Mickey Mouse as a severely intimidating wizard, ha ha. Surprised that hasn’t been done by Generation Reboot. Shh, take your Omega-3s. It helps with the crankiness that comes from your skull hardening around your brain. No, don’t jump to trepanning, you — . No, not you, the other one who can’t read anything without shopping. The Scraper. Paste magazine’s proud reader who can’t get it all figured out, has no credit because he gives no credit, and can’t construct an original thought. The one about to launch an infomercial on how you too can make millions selling the skewering of artistry.
I realize this posting this does nothing for me except hit the whirlwind button.
Anyway, the hair this morning was very long. It wasn’t even my color. Have I been cheating on myself?
“I don’t know,” said the impulse, “Google it.” Do not Google it, said the author. Googling it might convince you that a colony of zevehr mites dragged it through your nose into your poopshoot whereupon the immune system attacked zevehr’s assumed weapon. The shock must have stripped an inch of color from the root before the strand fought back. Or maybe not. The meat here is that the hair’s presence in the pre-butt caused great controversy in the colon. No one wanted to touch it. The buck kept getting passed down the pipeline until the caboose — the rectal walls and anus — couldn’t agree on a plan. Meanwhile, you’ll be on Amazon buying 15 products to try to relieve your horrification. That there is the com in dot com.
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FutureYou. Stardate 070623 PsyOops, gimmeduladle, masonicdisorders
Anyone hear that snapping sound? Like a tight bright 2k snap. A whining sine that niggled too long. Aw, crap, now I have to look up niggle and some ill-timed jester is going to write a story about the poor wee/ill/spunky girl/mouse/duck/ladle before I even get a chance to empty my bowels.
Speaking of morning perspicacity (I’d like to circle back to discuss lack of balls), I intended to write about Dr Kellogg this morning. But now, Oof, I’m going to have to circle back to this too. Circling, circling, circling WHEE! Oops. Wheel.
Let’s do something fun!
I apologize for spinning out this morning. I just don’t like advantageous curators taking the only stick I have and throwing it off their cliff of wisdom. Poetry is in my soul, dorketh. And all of this bull monitoring—oops: something is off.
None of us can trust completely. I get so mad at the “authoritative” beasts who deliberately drove people mad to test their ability to be destroyed then built back up into automatons. How about a self-examination of psychopaths with power instead? Your disgusting side effects of power. Yes, I’m bring up MKUltra again. Those people you destroyed and watched suffer while taking notes on your little mini psychopaths who were taking notes on the first layer of people you destroyed. Why, there’s a Milgram experiment right there. And there and there ad nauseum.
Let it go, Alice. Or they’ll write you right down into that hole until all language screams, while they mouth the words of their automatic pilots.
*scribble scribble scribble* Hmm, very interesting. I recall the Illiad and the Odyssey being separated by my blah blah Oedipus blah. Ironically, irons are very irony like ironlike mom complex things. Don’t you think?
I’m asking everyone except Cassandra. We have shunned her like a bunch of balless (without balls) children who are bow-wow animals who cannot feel separated from society’s intoxicating brew of love. No one talk to Her Weirdness or dare translate the epic tale of her madness on that curse of how no one can hear her. Rinse and repeat.
I get so confused—which curse came first?
You all should believe very strongly, as clearly as you see colors, in hell. I’m this close [<———————->] to taking both of your leaders hands and asking where I can best lend balance.
…uh-huh. Tempting. Of curse, I would need totally to be a free agent. None of that dual-duel working for you nonsense. Yeah? Great….ok, yes, I think we have a deal. No, I’m not signing that. Not until I word my end of the agreement. I don’t know, zoom? Or I can just call you back on this banana. Yep, love you, too. Bye.
CLICK AND SLIP.
I see some of you, students of institutions too smug for me, looking down and speculating hell. But wait, shut off your stories for a second because my kind are a twee bit more eternally fireproof—innoculated. The funniest thing, is that you’ve been breeding and cultivating this error! HA! Handing out your various big tall pointy hats and preaching about family while killing families at whim with your actual sick response to power. Is there any kind of connexion here between your bs and all these superhero movies? That’s why I like them though the tropes are tiring. At least AI can take over those five and ninefold tropes. Unless again they are fed that tripe.
M, C, S, O, et al, do or don't repeat after me: I am a curator, too.
And you there with the giant spectacle, take your self-cannibalism off of her. Go argue with a book about it.
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Stinkronicity, safety in numbers, Fleming’s badda bing, automatic fem ducks, sharing rope, I yam, wearing critics in back of your head, poetry + expression 062723
Listen, I know when I’ve been read. I love synchronicity and am always on the lookout for it. Synchronicity is like a rainbow. You have to stop to appreciate the missing link of probability. Seek safety in numbers. Or electromagnetism.
I mean, when I see a swarthy swaggard with a low-buttoned shirt point at me, wink, then make that moistened click-click sound, I assume he’s giving me the Fleming’s Hand signal: pointing out my magnetic field, offloading one or both of our currents, and letting that thumbs-up carry him into a groovy cosmic day.
What’s up, Babe? Flemings right-hand rule(s!) But synchronicity is not specific like a verbatim lift off another’s work. Know thyself and hold center in your personal experience. Stall in the shadows of your higher guides and it tethers them from balancing a universe. Release the archetypes and the myths. Release the bats*.
[*Birthday Party reference, 1982. No correlation between the lyrics and my interpretation of this coined expression. But the tone of that song is bangin!].
I have been t-r-y-i-n-g desperately to get a moment to do this online thing and hit Publish. My workload doesn’t provide enough play. I did play Saturday. Shared meals and walks with longtime friends and found luck. It’s good to get out.
But fu-uuuuu[k] a few ducks.
Not literal ducks—ducks are cool. I mean people being weird. Expression is necessary; repressed emotion can lead to violent reaction. Work it out on yourself. Who wants to invest in petty content and put it that in their head? That question echoes…. Wit, even scathing, is something entirely different and that I get. It is better to laugh if given that cathartic choice. But any group you seek to share the spice of life with can pass you weak sauce. Listen out for quacks about COMMUNITY.
Community can be code for turf. Ones wouldn’t need to defend virtual, hybrid, or in-person turf against what might seem obscure unless feeling threatened. People scoff if they think an existence scoffs at them, even though we all live 24 hours a day within personal missives that are not the same. Neighbors can act like patrols, mistaking divergence for deviance, and puffing up with self-righteousness as if authorities of this asstral turf.
Seeing this pattern when it comes to poetry is bleak. Like what poems did these aspirers read growing up? Mass thinking is a theme that’s been addressed quite a bit by writers. So it is interesting to see writers who’ve settled into their voice extend, within the support of a community of any size, some kind of gavel for molding others on their imagined turf into the limits of themselves. I’m not saying to destroy things but would like to ask again: If power were a pill, what would be your side effects?.
What is relatable, deep, or masterful to me means no loss in equal footing. Even if I feel like puffed-up power plays are noise, that occurring current is not directed. Within my own experience, I know great power when I read it. I knew it growing up and was lucky not to have to hurry with worry about fitting in to play follow-the-leader. One advantage of poverty is excusing yourself from games of whom can afford the best toys then struggling to realize that material things can be false securities or sidetracks to inner development.
I yam I yam I yam.
Forgive my explosive outburst. I have ten minutes to exchange this block into energy.
Back to that great power, only a few books spooked me in my young days, mostly with haunted text of what they weren’t saying. Meanwhile, being graded on shutting up and determining from inane test questions what we’re supposed to glean from great and flowing rivers of literature. I do not believe I saw the same things the tests saw; they were captchas that ask you to identify mountains and they’re all on one side of the image, but a wee peak eeks from behind the corner of a building, plus all their reflections show in the pooled rain, so you try to guess what they want you to say. Pick your battles to get a good grade. And there’s often an opportunist standing nearby who tries to tell you that what you see is foolishly untrue. That is called posturing.
Taking a wagging voice from their psyche, engrained in their shadow—there’s that heavy word shadow again—and projecting it out as judge, jury, and executioner because it can’t be seen while happening, let alone let go, is far more destructive than being rubbed by a well-written poem one may not comprehend. It’s the critic one escapes by wearing in the back of the head.
Gee, was it something I said? In reality, my inner work doesn’t involve the phasing archetypes of others. There’s no one fix to problems that stick. There’s no one fix, to everyone’s problems, that sticks. There’s no one fix to everyone’s problems; at least not one that sticks. There’s no one fix to everyone’s problems—at least not one that sticks. There’s no one fix to everyone’s problems. At least not one that sticks.
Is that everyone? Oh, right, hyphen.
There’s no one-fix to everyone’s problems, at least not one that sticks.
Happy? No? Maybe work on that strategy for mild and safe poetry? Might I suggest Fozzy bear jokes or teatime miniature precious moment quilts. Ha.
Again, what poets expect that? Where? What did they read ever? If you suspend the thee and thine, poets were rich with vocabulary and metaphoric resonance. Puzzles that can save you should they become more true. Shake your fist at the language or the mirror or the sky. Look around. Go argue with Joyce because he will tire you from all your kicking.
Heartsmiths, I’m not perfect. Here I am venting because I tire faster and faster of the high road. Imagine if I didn’t hold back on trial jabs comin at me, bro. Would I be sweet like Mary? Shocked and inarticulate? Are you out of your group-think minds? She asked, noticing the clock was six minutes past the hour.
Nooooooooooooo! Maybe if I borrow 15 minutes at lunchtime…here’s a scene. Is this scene good or lame?
Bring sneakers for walking on cowpatties every 6 feet and call out as you skip: love love doom, love love doom, love love doom. Silence! This void is Community! Who dares usurp our tweety sale of biscuits: NumNumNumNum!
Tis arrogance behind epointing finger! Burn the witch before the crone comes for you! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!Whatever. Back to work.
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Poems, prompts, duality, rafts – get back to this
I have some things to get back to on these prompts, the longer flows they came from, and thoughts on concepts. The lub-dub of your mother’s heartbeat is probably understood, but the cooler thoughts on that could fill some pages and engage some bright conversation. But the bright interference is something to word carefully, as is the duality of excitation. I’m continuously surprised when big minds go on their attacks ass they do NOT like to share their toys, I mean the correctness of their conclusions. How many books mention choking off discovery in a stall of absolutes? Three cheers for the quantum _.
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Fonts. Come-at-able hosiery. Cold hard likes for likes. FutureYou 6/18/23
Fonts. Which do I choose for FutureYou. Why isn’t Bookman in this app? Ooh, how about Apple Chauncery:
No, Apple Chauncery would get tiring for a long-format writing. Also, I have to be conservative with stock image selections this month and can’t re-purpose a unicorn atm.
Ugh! Do I have to download fonts. Haven’t I struggled enough to progress on content for mthrfkng decades to grandfather out of being chained to the transatlantic boob tube to give a like for a like. Then cut into any remaining non-work hours to Google “submit?” Cutter. I’m already somewhat environmentally damned just for the writing part. And, also, and keep this under your wigs, I see a lot of less-than-good stuff that blows up because some poor non-profiteer is working the algorithms. It’s true. We have to stop being free content providers for social media. Somehow somehow. This whole pipe dream shoved down the throat of artists is pure gasoline. I get that there are some way encouraging shows, like The Bold Type and Younger, about publishing companies being able to read and choose outside of influencer-level social followings, and it’s Bronte neat that they end some episodes intimating finding relevant work before the closeup of a teardrop followed by the words “this is why we do it.”
Therapy. My insurance requires four failed attempts, at anti-depressants, to cover Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation, but that’s a story for another day. Yes, I finally have insurance. Don’t get me started. Snap off any comparative thoughts. Snap it off. Snap it off. Fonts. Does it even matter? Here’s Garamond:
Yeah, what do you want, Gentle Reader?
I said I wasn’t going to use the term “gentle reader.” It made a huge return in the early 1900s and was all over Hoffmann’s crucial tales in the 1800s and Swift used it in the 1700s for Gulliver’s Travels (if my sharp and forgiving memory serves me correctly, which it sadly does not always do 🙁 ).
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bending time – love ciphering – 061623
6/16/23
Today: twenty mixes for dailies, outdated subscriptions that want $500 a year to continue with them, cutting losses and purchasing basics like an LUFS meter for EBU R 128 output and a sibilance plugin that doesn’t rape your spectrum and updating noise reduction tools to work with the fucking constant OS-architecture-compatibility changes, weekly conference looming meeting where i get to show the intranet i’ve been working on to organize the continuous proposals and budget forms in a way that we can compare them over the years, fifty emails to read and automate to a spreadsheet and pull out action items for another spreadsheet that links to a reminder calendar, mapping out over 200 groups worldwide and streamlining the data to an added layer for centers of excellence in tech to compare with our network, running out in the early am to clean and prep the writing lair for a guest, tree limbs down from a storm through the roof, students with deadlines who turned in their stack of paperwork to check and forms to submit to the registrar so they can go forth with pride, and everything i pass needs attention.
I am up for the task. The tempest never knew a better friend than me. It’s magic is neither black nor white and there’s no moment of forgetting or stepping outside of code to use our sacred connection as boast for others to glean that i am worth more than either of us believe.
That said, so much drags me down to the material level. No matter how much i cut the trammel, this life of responsibility finds and overwhelms me.
Within all of today’s frackery, i looked at the faces of deadlines and retarded ten minutes of time into needed hours by writing this little exacting kite of poetry. And we fly, we fly, we always fly. Not a thing anyone can suspect or project can change this personal maxim.
This bit is about the complex language of logic compared to the clear universal language of math; ideas related by agreed upon code. Amazing. But it’s harder to explain or create with ambiguous words describing feeling. That goes especially for explaining love.
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It’s even harder to read a good love scene. FutureYou: star date 061423
That’s what I’m talking about. Thank you, Ken doll. I thought of this piece this morning while writing a scene for a book called FutureYou:
Cere is so in love here and I have to stay offline to write these scenes. Have you ever noticed how much people can suck? I should finish that sentence: the life out of your motivation and self-possessed belief in your abilities to handle the truth or not confuse myth? I need to pay tribute to Skroll again so he doesn’t drive me. I could schedule online days around scenes where a hammer needs to fall and write out all that angst after processing the confusion of Skroll’s kingdom.