Its fifteen below. I'm up typing for hours at a time, and my body structure has found new definition, as if a different artist took over chronicling my spiral downward, my descent. I wish I could shove nanites down my throat and slice off my arms and replace them with wiper blades, the only thing handy right now that comes as a matching pair. Thinking about women in faraway places, thinking of novels and stories and being melded to the keyboard. And wishing I was a drifter, walking the railroads, an insane unknown. Happy.
