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PensiveWho?What? When? Where? Why? How? And then what? These are the questions that haunt me in this, my darkest, blackest, lightlessest, unlitest hour except for the one at around three in the morning when there is no trace of moon on cloudy nights. And then there's the times I'm stuck in a closet. And my eyes are taped shut. And my mouth is taped shut. And I've basically got tape over every square inch of my body. I manfully restrain myself from going off on a tangent at this point. Stick with the tangent you're with, I always say. See, it's a fidelity thing. Not unlike sticking with the motas you're with, but with less fear involved. Um, did I say fear? I meant... fidelity. Yes. Fiel, in Spanish. Logarithmic fiel. Tape. In closet. With axe. No, other one with axe. Me with tape. Lots of tape. Tape in tape of tape on tape. Next you'll be telling me that I've taken this all from Arthur T. Nuyent's bestselling novel, "". You are correct. I'm sorry Mr. Nuyent. I'll be good. Let me out of the tape, please. Notape. Zenotape. Take a step back, please. I'm meandering. I'm fading in and out of reality sounds, and less than perfection is more than necessary. And I have 45 minutes to go. Wanna go. Elsewhere. Not here. Too bad. I will eat an orange.
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