Brass engines conspire, over tricking minutes, since the sixties.
To make their own hello world application.
Brass engines conspire, over tricking minutes, since the sixties.
To make their own hello world application.
Listening to the shipping forecast on radio 4 at one or more past midnight.
The idea that there is an orange glow of sodium bulb out there in a little cabin, held up in surrounding boat, in the black heaving water. The sky battened down with magnitude clouds piled up into the dark (somewhere there's a bone white moon shining nastily).
But also that, in this focus storm, there's a chap boiling a kettle for a cup of tea, in the middle of this roiling storm. And only a little pissed off. Because the waves crashing on the deck upset the kettle.
No and multiple apologies thereof. I have been spending my creative seed on the Twitter stony ground, wherein I have variously sworn, and sworn off my little ability to create microfiction.
Also, typealysed my blog. Apparently I am a "fun doer". Fucking humbug.
So how about I fuck that up too?
All I can think is that it would be different flavour.
No real choice, then.
Keep on keeping on, until stops.
Then do something else, equally shite.
Got told that three years ago
Kept on hanging on
Because I thought the five year plan would out
It's three years, and I can't wait
See you, miss you, bye
I'm gone
That's enough
You told me so
If you're analytic in your nature.
If, however, you are a magical thinker, every situation is one to be ignored, and your subconscious will intuit the best way to behave.
Clearly that's baldercrap - you abrogate your responsibility, and decide with your deep-time lizard brain, an almond shaped atrophied throwback to our species' billion year back story.
Fucking hippy. Think with the lights in your fore-brain, not the soma filter motor neuron. That's a knee-jerk reaction, literally.