Blister

Before this one, two-one-two, I'll permit an up-front, that while this is appropriate fantasea it is tonally faithful to the very real events from which it has been derived, certain beyond inspiration, and must be read in that light, in light of that. While doing so, also remember, or bear in mind, or remember, that my intent is not to glossy up or paper over or make interesting-to-read. This will be the cold minimum, only what is afforded by my recollective power only. Read it low and let its aubergine form heat too long and come up between your fingers; it is not an accident; it is how it is supposed to be. (Continued below.)

Having affectedly stumbled here not quite a year on, in real-ty over that, much mossy embarrassment lingered, and only cleared once I had convinced myself of an untruth, that the culprit suffered youthful swollen fingers. It's cool, or nearer lukewarm, to proclaim No regrets, but I kinda regret that one, and that paragraph from that one, and commentary, never posts, that hint at life on the outside. I'm fortunate however to have possessed the good sense to have removed this March's sexual outpouring ex post facto, meaning, so far, this is all of the year. My prior self, uncucumbered by private health insurance and fatting taxis, will consider that fact with revulsion. And both would feel candles aren't right.

Instead I felt like sinking into a wet bath. But wetting oneself is almost never the answer. I owe knowing that to my Russian Answers Tree. My alternative, diving into sawdust, proved not to be the answer neither. It was one of those situations the awfulness of which infiltrates all methods of dealing with it excepting those which really one does not expect to deal with it, Percy, but would simply rather do at the time, as the above two. And in the end my way of actually dealing with it which I've been sharing with you is childbed and wretched but here goes.