I do my best and worst work north of you and still get picked on — now in a great way.
The week will have proceeded — I stick in a little yoga. Then I run after you
thinking what a complete idiot. I am. My hair’s havoc, I’ll have restructured specs.

Specs in everyday Aleut reminds me fisherman physiques are like ice swamps, barricades for foreigners. (Specifics are never fulfilled.)

I got stuck on yoga so I put that in. Yet how fine is it when you don’t have anything left? What if with 300 native speakers nothing in writing can be reacted to, transacted on? Word forms in disappearing ink?

(Involuntary burn, noiseless migration, light re fusing natural flames)

The contextual self, yourself, is fascinating, perhaps to squelch a tautology of pleasure smelling of pleasure.