The days of '11 were filled with stories about rosary beads and falsies who come to life, Jello molds with artificial intelligence and various other awful excuses for raconteur material. I think it was simply because my girl likes the one about the chrome peignoir, so I overdid it. Like sealed up poems, I've put stories on hiatus, right there with love crooning and just about any sign that the stream of consciousness shows any creativity. Not quite at the Charlie Kaufman level in Adaptation yet, but getting closer. The aspect of knowing your life has been changed forever rings those chimes again when change once more reboots your modem. It's more than "these are good but I like the biscuits at Red Lobster". Comfort zone. Particulars. Don't move my cheese shit. We came from the same birth canal but 24 hours without TV is both HELL and barely noticeable among the same family strain. In it to win it. The distractions are just that - I drove and the guy at St. Peter's gate let me in on just my recognizance. That's better than 50 mpg recognizance. I got special handling and now I'm still writing this of sane mind and a comfort zone in my Jockeys. Time won't change me 'cause I can't change time.