the fourth month of winter, ah. fen is expeditious, hilde's still eating snow despite my admonitions, copp is soul delight, comet's an intelligent goof. i'm tired of bombs and obomba, ice, and my own addled slurried mind, but a march hare was sighted already in the alley where obomba once smoked on his back landing. plus i got a great drawing of bark obomba, along with several other lovely pictures, a painting of the fenster i love. i'd like to have a dog art show.

i came for thee. with spiral chew.

baba don't believe in god.

sometimes it's so funny to have a body, to look at bodies. it's easier to see dogs as bodies sometimes than people. sometimes i see people as really lost dogs.

oh my common one.

this is no social crisis, just another tricky day for you. pete townshend

face on the water, protuberant.

fen again

for oliver sachs who is dying and recording his feelings.

if you read the signs you might find they indicate good luck.

a heart of ice is paradoxical and true.

how Come You, so Full of  Praise!

well now, i don't rightly know, i was never religious, yet still i struggle in god's absence, as i did in my dad's, it's yet a question of abandonment, and abandon, and at times and with aesthetic distancing it may appear i dance slowly or in sudden blurs.

ice is risen.

insight.

it doesn't make sense. some flourish and some are destroyed. why would we look for god in that?

let suffering speak.

mindnumbing. it's really not a comfort to people. it's hell. hell is mindnumbing.

disquisition on presence, exquisite, excruciating, quiescent.

suffering is

good suffering

karma is

tell it to mama if you ain't got no mountain, if you ain't got no mama tell it to the inland sea. if you ain't got no sea whisper.

this is gonna make one hell of a sermon in the afterlife

trance

we're off.