No more white, as it's past labor day (labora), and though my personal fall doesn't start for about another moon I can see, taste, feel the shift in mood and melody. How fortunate, in this season, to know a full set of Moirae. Three Libras, no less.
Thus begins the long descent. Equinox, Equilux, and we always love living on the boundary. (to her! definest!) (ora) High contrast, and the story comes into focus again. Produced a lot of fruit this season (year of the ox, don't you know); now it's time to see if it's as nourishing in the long haul as I think and hope it is. Swords and scales out, let's get efficient up in here, like Oregon Trail and Tetris. Keep the useful bits (like coffee, cloves and conversation, and ponder them in your heart)...die off for the rest. Prune thyself! It's less cruel in the long run, promise.
Switch channels; trinary wavelength. 3/4 time. Synthesis. A different meter, a different harmony; ai can mean both harmony and love. (Is that what I mean?) Upon reflection. To test truth with echo. Sounding out, using language to probe the depths. Oh, I've a lingam (ra), a lingua (ah!) that'll plumb your depths, alright. Does it resonate? Will it blend?
Oh, horrible wordplay. It mist be autumn again. Season of musts and fellow mootfulness.
The answer is left as an exercise to the reader. But no one should brave the underworld alone.
The bumper sticker I saw this morning said "Let's get drunk and read!"
"Warms my heart", I thought, "but you should have been here about eight hours ago".
Blissfully quiet morning. Back to Autumn, full buses and all.
Modafinil, you are tasty and useful, but it's still slightly creepy how seamlessly you patch that hole where the four more hours of sleep I should have had ought to be. Having one of those "someone's thought of this already...have they?" moments, thinking of a story idea where modafinil is actually a neurochemically-encoded incantation to the Elder Gods, designed by mad Tibetan antiLamas from the MKULTRA rejects pool. Oh, you get your wakefulness, alright, but only on loan. At some point in your mortal life, all those hours are called back, at a time when you really wish you weren't asleep. The safety of your physical body is at that point likely the least of your concerns; in fact, a quick death due to unconsciousness may be the most mercy one could hope for from the cold, precise machine that now has you and in truth knows neither mercy nor severity...
Tangent. Back to work.