Life Stoops

Since I last penned: the stories I could tell: number many, as with all, but all, if not most, aren't worth telling. No longer thoroughly abstemious, excluding ubiquitous tea-fuel. Perhaps being a soiled human isn't all that, although no longer can I drift, conversationless, and peer down my nose despite my height. Obviously it's Ben's fault, and, consequently, his decision as to whether to shower himself in scorn or praise. Other pastures — one in particular — remain intangibly obscure, semi-solely due to my new clock, the rest falling upon what ever. So it's limbo.

I'm not raging, and I'm still yet to pay, but should I worry? I don't care to answer that. The shame lies, or doesn't, here, but my fingers repel these ones and those zeros, and good on 'em. I prefer a box of nothing. A mulatto soul so rare, I cherish little else. Only a few more lifeless sentences, innocent, though proven guilty, and we'll be out of here. Not yet worthy of a bankroll. Not yet asleep. Failed at that. You filled in? Good.