The failed poet.
I smoked pot and caught up on my blog and journal.
I lay on the couch with my hand resting on the bulldog’s stomach, who lay on the rug next to me and listened to Patti circa 1981 to 1985. Some of her best work… um, with a handful of worst tracks she had ever recorded. But with them all stored in itunes on my lap top, you can delete individual tracks. I’ve deleted 4 to 6 naf tracks, I can’t remember, which in my opinion makes the body of work infinitely better. Completely amazing. This is the first time I’ve sat, reclined and listened to the edited track list, in its entirety.
The sun is shining, the sky is blue.
What a wonderful life, Sam messages me.
It is supposed to be 39 degrees today, well, on Thursday. What day is it? Okay, tomorrow, but it would be right when I was heading out the door to an office. I feel like I am suffocating already.
It is sunny with a cool breeze, I dare say. it feels like the magical 26 degrees, as measured in the Northern NSW mindset, as it were, and as it is, allegedly, ever day in Northern NSW.
Come to the luckier country.
I ate toasted salami, cheese and tomatoes late in the afternoon, feeding the bulldog late, at the same time.
Then I discovered the Xmas chocolates.
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