I taper our next notes in Roundhand with visually inevitable things selected for gameness. A keen screenwriter would work across genres and unforced forms and play something interdisciplinary; I see. Um, ok, yes. I’ve —
I have not fulfilled criteria set by stop action. (Polity and dignity of appearances don’t mix.) Nothing personal, I cry when my oath becomes subsequent, giving credit to everything on the surface without a message. As —

As when struck a lightning rod emits a ballet in dust and after that a solution, a chemical substance that self-recuses returning more as a notional coloration, a cognitive hint there is a small commotion in the back of matter. As with one who is loved.

Still, foothills are stewing out back under the sun at a blistering pace.

Front and back: Ants climb blades of roasting grass, over and over, seemingly without purpose but everyplace.