let me grind my gear here for a moment.  someday someday I keep hammering on the surface trying to become but some what?  i don't know what is good of bad for me, i am not anything you know really.  Just again an indian summer for life, samurai sycophant lisping out half-answers.  begging bowl champion, me.  Just a starving madness would get me no further than dreaming, nor the stability and paralysis of headless satiety.  if i can hold the bliss there, what does any of it matter?  not one jot do I.  jungle drums, glitchy baptisms, neon nothings, stalwart somethings, all over this tired filmed orb in its restless is-ness forever.  not tired or wired.  just this thing.  like a something something.