Translate in to your native language 💱

Tuesday, March 31

The "Look" of Encountering Me, on a Today of Standard Notions.

Being an « admittedly » bum "tryna'" admittedly is a persona marketing enclave of questionable sort, as we all know. 

This being the case, as that there are few options for persona marketing of the PR self-image sort of slant on things, there are sorts of bums that seem to care worse, even to the point of common fare identity of as much of as that they find themselves, that they present of themselves a fair-enough Christian unclean. 

I try to imagine a fair standard American identity, and, doing justice to my upbringing; things that I've been nurtured with, things that I lacked, things that people would have wanted to see of me, and I take on the vulnerable and contentious (to some) identity of what some people would consider to be needless and equally worthy of rebuke, as of any other shit at an iteration of persona marketing identity that I've been, of myself - here and there, an "admittedly" sort, of a more depraved of misfortune nature, yet I receive, on this day, as well as commonly standard, of that my appearance is such that it does fair justice to the backdrop of my life, in deeds that come to have been seen of me, or "witnessed," and proclaimed as the truth - here, I opt to proclaim, as a standard threshold of expectation upon myself, of that I do works of charitable, selfless, thoughtful, and needful consideration of others, such that I might simply be good, and seen as a good person; seen with affections of good enough sight-unseen peers of willingly Christian identity in life - for the fact that it's "not bad," - a most simple derivation of a problem task force issue at hand;

Are people making life out to be "simply" a basis of that it were « bad versus good »? 

On one hand, I shrug it off. Who cares about people who make decisions? For me, I care about standards of established bespoken acceptability of administration, somewhat of an expectation that all behavioral matters and issues of life had occured, and have had standardized administrative insight and action taken upon it, such that runs the totality of society. 

There are people who "can't" do well, for any measure of conceivably acquaintanceship standard of timescale. 

(What can one man really do - take on unfortunate men, as disciples, of that I am Chrstian?).

There are people who "won't," who had (subconsciously) decided that they outperform society, within the hermetic isolation of their aloof, lofty selves, of a borderline personality disorderly nature. I used to be if this type. 

There is the one who accepts life, at it's takings and becomings - of things that God provides into man, for that we have a common agreement, in American society, of that our standard and "official," of religion, at issue: being that we are Christians, in identity. 

Being out on the street, something as simple as that trash is not always spitefully "trashed," and the worth of the food destroyed; yet as such, being that I come across food, that it had been a considerate sacrifice, for a person of such nature as is expected of man, and adult, of that food is a primary needful resource in life, of a constantly seeking and striving nature, which we are bound by, whereas some people would simply shrug off the necessity of food, and of appearing to be rational. People take issue with the identity who presents of themselves as that they do not care for food; as beggars, as the destitute, yet, as well, of an uncommon act to come into manifest life, as it were - for all intents and purposes, (as distributively, as is seen to be the case; of that a charitable deed is an uncommon one, and to be rebuked, of an expectation of commonality is violated, the token issue of an honesty-driven identity at-hand: all the much more essential, and productively sustainable, in that people find things commonly "good, or bad," dating back to when we were children). A decision to act poorly is obviously a violable identity to portray of ones self - not all unfortunates, as victims of abuse, were raised with a Christian forgiveness - of as much as they will stand (of a circumstantial situation; of there being risky behavior and consequences at stake). 

That being said, here's my list common up-to-date look and appearance. 

The personal tote cart is an affectionately nurtured persona-taggable affect, in and of itself - capable of being constitutable banter of formative sociability context. It does « ... ». It hauls « ... ». It portrays « ... ». 

That being said, I'm wearing camouflage tights, as well. It might come to be seen, by common usage in our generation's perceptions in life, that a one who rebukes a Christian Missionary sort, with affections to the armed forces, and towards law enforcement, a decidedly courtesan "hopeful" appearance, as that it'd be taken as such, is as much as a bum, (I) can do, of myself. 

Others do similarly, more, or less; others do worse. 

People who "won't" seek subconsciously for affections, of a resource that exists, in society, for everyone, as we'd stake as our claim, as Americans. The decision to waste administrative time with "unresolvable" problems is an interrent duplicity of identity in society, whereas we are all human, and we have basic  human and civil rights, that we form our expectations of behavior and achievement upon. We are disappointed when people fail to meet good natured expectations. Deciding other than to behave one's self in a Christian manner is a promise to act with subversion to society, to betray what people expect of each other, and to make things as simple of that we were taught "good and and" when we were children. 

As adults, we expect more. To be unprepared for the moment of status upheaval for the betterment of ourselves is an unfortunate one - like the time a more attractive person of the opposite sex greets us, as individuals, with more than common affections, or attention - a time where we were too high, not sociably charismatic of a mock-up of Grace, poise, and professionalism, such as to Garner us the affections and continued interaction with the one of our affections, free from the troubles of the world, as it had been, in the past, without our loved one. 

It's a common shortcoming, for me, of that I miss out on such occasions, because I'm "too high." 

People who cause me problems are also of issue. 

I suppose that that's all I might have about a subject, for the moment. 

Sunday, March 29

I see some scattered white bread pieces in the Terminal Metro station;

Then I wonder, what if... they don't all end up being carnival pigeons? 

I suppose that many pigeons will be witnessed on an off day, or venturing out from the flock, but that would be part of the inquisitive nature of the urban pigeons lifestyle. Pigeons land in front of human observers and passersby in order to enact the time-worn ritual of evincing some food. 

Of course, not every creature could possibly be up to a finery carnival performance Fletch, at all times. The organic nature of the crowd and the audience is that of an ebb and flow, around the unfolding of the event, as it happens. 

Then, the sociable behaviors of the post-excitement engagement (for now, it's simply a feeding, but today, it was special food - horchata cream cheese mini sandwich bites). Some of them flutter away, in a flurry of wind, as the unknown signal becomes triggered amongst the birds, in agreement of that they should flee.

I wonder how the Manchester flock is faring. I was tearful at the notion of abandoning them, in to adulting - that they would be. 

I swore I was being ray-tracked by an Osprey the other day; I'm sure I mentioned it.

It's a rare sighting, to catch it within low hovering, here, pictured under the clouds. 
The Osprey is a mysterious machine. I don't know much about it, but I do recall instances in which I had spotted this dual-engine helicopter, and similarly, within a developing paranoia context, I felt what seemed like rays of the sun, yet much more harsh. 

I'd have to read up on this machine to speak well on it, aside from that. 

Wednesday night - an iPigeon « peeped out » wandering about DTLA; an uncommon demographic to appear in the area; inevitably, I have to sleep, at some point.

Wednesday night, in downtown Los Angeles, California, was a hum-drum paltry showing, mostly, of the typically lively and vibrant social life that feeds the bar and restaurant scene in the area. On this night, it seemed, the locals of the DTLA area were mostly suitably dissatisfied with the offerings of what could be had, « despite all things » of that we were on lockdown, by order of the various higher-level government institutions (actually, all levels of government, I suppose), and the streets were, in turn, filled with a much different, and definitely seedier demographic, of which, I might surmise, was not unfamiliar to me, given some consideration; yet, to have witnessed the Los Angeles County Sheriff's busses entering the Justice Administration building, and the narratives that had spun off, from that, (from that morning) - the linearity of the sinister contexts that unfolded were that of a most "of on homie" « named » gang, of which some of my former peers had strong affiliations with | for, and, as well, strong affections towards. 

I remember the imagery of the persona | man who had stalked me in Santa Monica, detailing, from the time at the crosswalk stop light, throughout the crossing of the street - of that he had pinned me as a targeted subject of study, prior to meeting me; yet here, thankfully, the man presented himself as a woe-stricken, conciliatory, and repentant individual, having been in incarceration, (conceivably), with our interaction leading him there, whereupon we parted ways - the police officer succinctly had told me to "go that way," which was the opposite of where the suspect had been scooched over, on to the sidewalk; the police cruiser separating myself and him. I went to the Santa Monica Police Headquarters, as I had originally been directed to do, when I called 911. (The man continued to follow me, as I was on my way there. He spoke of things, such as "how about we commit some crimes together?" - which I felt was overly seedy and seditious in nature; in addition, he seemed to be aggressively in disavowal of a common space between us, from the moment I observed him - staring at me, wearing sunglasses, whereas he spoke of and at me with familiarity, and he seemed set on acquiring some trinket or token of my person, with this as the outset, of what might have been a different sort of acquaintanceship, otherwise.

Yet, here, in his desperate recants of his behavior, and of the people who had enticed his vulnerable-state self with notions of some notions of that "of on homie," for it's seditious and capricious nature; for it's formative declarations of sedition and caprice - novel, to some; mindlessly irresolute, though, I'd say. Yet seemingly (and easily) hundreds, if not thousands, of same such-wise formative individuals seemed out in staunch force, in Downtown Los Angeles, as I attempted to sleep through the night next to a Metro rail station by Staples Center, and the Convention Center, in a parking lot. A drunken man, otherwise sociable, flaunted features of that I could not help but not sleep, for his ministrations, of a decidedly Latino etymology - his pidgins, which were threatening and ominous in nature, as well as [perhaps] grandiose, in that he seemed to believe, (or have tactical awareness of my positioning, and travails, leading up to "parking it," at the parking lot, where I imagined that others (losers, perhaps, like myself, I might similarly have seemed), yet - 

Even the children we're fraught with problematic behavioral conditions - on one hand, they were older, for that age that they obviously were, audibly, as youthful teenagers, or was it that they had simply been of the age to receive oppositional-defiant personality disorder, their forebears, as well, and that none of them, of the conditional of, of the affiliation to "of on homie," the gang, whereas it's simply a bit troubling, in that some of them present themselves as kind, charitable, and sociably well-to-do, and just earlier that day, with me, in fact. 

The problem is, is that these "of on homie" behaviors and mannerisms are imbued in to subjects wittingly, and with effort; whereas the man who had stalked me was one to recant, and rebuke: the affiliation, the lies, the impropriety of the flimsy institutional underpinnings of the organization, whereas many others were | are treated with caution, for showing up, in the general public, on a Wednesday night, me, being one known, and self-aware individual-as-targeted-victim, some various other errata of things that perceivably went on, during the course of such an influx of revelers, of the Wednesday night, that it was, whereas there must | ought to be some compromise, in solution to the obviated problems, of that they were, many of them: disheveled, not well-assertively-bespoken, of the words that they would say, some of them gay, or seditiously so. Had I posted my other blog on "some guy" on the morning of this Wednesday? I believe so. He pulled some sorry drunken gay guy stuff on me; it made me think on Covid-19 social distancing demands, that (supposedly) everyone would have caught wind of, or at least have noticed, out in society, of that « something » was amiss. 

In any case, that was this passing Wednesday, March 25th, on my end. 

Who pays the toll of the confounding [f]actor's role in a role-weary incompetent or insane subject?

Somewhat - 

Alright, « okay » like, I really needed that (most times), or, like, people really [don't] bother to conceal their formants, and self-such character-isms of speech and poise, but I don't really get the lack of sociable attainment, the thing about "just getting it done," 


There's this vast contingency of avoidant (I'd forgotten about that one [of abnormal psychology]; the avoidant, the passive-aggressive, the decades gone on, in lacking sobriety and 12 Steps fundamentals, as life. People really do live their lives off of the 12 Steps, when they're in the supportive arms of truly good-meaning sober individuals - I've always self-managed my drug abstinence, because I have a hard time speaking with strangers, and some aspects along those lines. 

For that matter, it feels like you guys are abusing the child of my life-in-suspension - I used to pull Tarot cards for this type of thing. But that was years ago.

Then, I became a person who simply never does the thing that is so characteristically immature, and short-sighted. I did the most menial of digital life-styling reputational upkeep, in cases where I had done others wrong (undoubtedly while in the midst of a manic spree on life; by all means, un-sober): I went back and apologized to the person - digitally, at that, since it was my digital Life up for self-criticism, and for matters of integrity of my self.

The point being, is that, all-in-all, I did do those things, and I could move forth in life flinching with the sour memory of those things lingering - nonewhatsoever. 

Okay, there is this guy, and one other guy, I owe them each about $40-$45. Eek. That's literal money I owe, to leverage my business ethics statistical "perfect," otherwise.

But some of you guys (and ladies) - sheez, ... I guess maybe you guys (and ladies) perhaps never made it out past suburbia; whereas [I seem to have recognized destitute and laboring] {some guys} I've seemed to recognize, out in the open wild, while I'd been "trekking," and how natural the interactions were - just in passing; just maybe, it was "them."

Those kinds of guys don't have this passive-avoidant histrionic persona that pops in to my mind, and acquisitions some arbitration or leverage about my wherewithal and my going-for-show-pigeons better pedigreed self.

On one hand, there's the notion of replicable personae-identities, yet who would be comfortable knowing that I simply « believe » these horrible things about people? Some people.

Some people who don't really do Facebook « well, or properly ». And then, there's this whole thing about speaking in to the phone's speaker {thing} and the expectation that the audio clip-bytes reach me?

 On one hand, I can concede that this is about as "crazy" as I'd come off, given my willingness to « once again » relate the long-windedness and intricacies of a schizotypal personality disorder, such that I have; whereas most people claim that they don't hear voices, whatsoever. 

That's it, though. That's the limit of how « actually » crazy I look; it costs me a blog of relevant content, somewhat, to digress, again, in to abnormal psychology, once again, yet here it be, plain and simple - I'm 38 years old now, so's most people involved, or better (or lesser of consequence, for being third-person removed) - most perhaps-so. The opposing face-to-face second person disposition is truly a rare one, but I do sometimes speak at long-winded lengths about formative aspects of all expected contextual realities and foundational underpinnings, which lead to critical analysis of the "other" person, at hand, but that's not to say that many people who encounter me don't actually mean me harm, given a turn-of-my-back to them. They do, and I realize these things, even as they trouble me.


Then, I inevitably get some web-crawler "bot" hits, after publishing the post to social media, and oftentimes, a colloquy ensues. But I'm moreso that I'd just rather be done, and done with the issue. I could do coffee, at a coffee shop, and forget about it, over a sweet one.

My blog stats - minutes after posting the blog and sharing it to social media.

It could even be a home-spun drink, in a recyclable bottle - but these types of sociable accommodations just fail to get done.

What im im see, here, though, is an imminent troll-of-all-web internet activity, for lack of a better term, in the all-hours readiness to check out my latest blog, type of thing - which could only be « somewhat » okay. The thing of the internet of all hours "thing" is a tired subject - I'm commonly neurotically fraught with the consequences of having done a night of the internet of all hours "thing," and the cost of repairing that deed, with ionic minerals, with medications, with attending personnel and professionals about my mental health patient status, not to mention my social worker - these are all tolls of being improprietuous of what ends up being "for my sake," in which case I have to answer for my [obvious] shortcomings.

The desire to shield one's identity behind remote sensing technology is a dark, loaded vehicle, carrying the impetus of the person's wherewithal that could have been - for having jaunted a fresh, new, identity through stimulant abuse that many find so compelling; yet many also fail to remit a sustainable [or any some-such] contribution to society, whether it be digital or real-life. For that matter, I find that my schuzotypal self commonly lends it's nature to a more familiar term, in that I perceive it as an augmented reality - one where a person's reputation could « precede » their physical presence. Sometimes the voice {conscience} hanging over the shoulder of the guilty is a partner-in-arms, with the self of such person. 

Saturday, March 28

Thankfully, people are keeping the birds fed during this public health crisis.

I stopped over in DTLA, after returning an unexpectedly fortunate haul of recyclables to the tune of $7.70 at GP Recycling

A passing bike rider observes the Los Angeles Public Library flock of pigeons after they enjoy a meal for the afternoon.
Largely, aside from some scant touristy and locals type of population being outdoors in downtown Los Angeles, there is an obvious larger demographic of homeless individuaos, as well as individuals trekking about, after being released from Los Angeles County Jail. The other night, the depravity population was out in large numbers, many of them looking for trouble. I was fortunate to have some overseer protective status, as a victim of crime asset, of which, there was a vast underpinning allegory being portrayed to my front-of-mind, as the remote theatre of operations of a tactical nature, which had escalated in to Army Corps of Engineers being called out to make sure that the ground water was suffice to manage the ongoing enumeration of Civic individuals, and as well, as a courtesy resource management Target accommodation, in that the ambient temperature of DTLA is sometimes artificially warm, or unseemingly cold, and windy, to help preserve the safety of displaced victims, and to calm the seeking slight criminal nature of the otherwise also displaced, or perhaps gang-affiliate group injunction status of the street-walking demographic, which was rife, out on the streets on Thursday. 

Wednesday, March 25

Enabling Talk-as-you-type accessibility functioning on Android devices.

This is perhaps a useful set of features to discover, if [perhaps, to reiterate], it might seem as if brute Force disturbances are affecting your Android device, and, as well - functions as a suitable intelligence feedback partnering mechanism as text is typed out, delivering interactive feedback. 

At the outset of initiating the feature, there seems to be an intermittent barrage of claims of "Alternatives are dismissed," "Alternatives are available." Perhaps the device will learn intelligently to not do this, over time. On further inspection, it appears to lay out a backlog of enumerated menu options. Hmm. I'll get back to this blog, at some point, after shutting down. I'm going to have a bologna sandwich with cheese. 

Some quaint iPigeon (miniatures) of rustic notions [found at Garfield Park, in South Pasadena].

Here are some scratch raw images of imaginative ad hoc composition, for the mind's eye to decipher, of what I consider to be suggestive of rustic life, of centuries past, or, perhaps, of non-industrialized small locales, of a largely idyllic (or mythic) nature-bound setting. 

What do these images, in their obscurity of definition, suggest, of their subjects and composition? I'll let the readers' minds discover it's own slight fantasy world, for themselves.

Friday, March 13

The impact of coronavirus has left it's mark upon the casual downtown Los Angeles and surrounding areas.

What's one to do about this impending and ominous, though obscure, threat of contracting a potentially very deadly virus?

On one hand, we can embody some rational common sense about the means and scope of the impact of this vast news-story topic drop, and see it for what it truly is, to a large degree. First of all, for a pandemic to have reached so many nations, to such a degree of repute, such that the disease itself could be identified as having stricken a victim, tagged and classified as such, is somewhat murky, I'd say, within the scope of understanding that it came out of a Chinese fish market, to begin with. 

People who are unfamiliar with Chinese meat markets would ostensibly view such a foreign and unfamiliar cultural facet as strange; the Chinese, being an unattainable cultural divide to bridge, in their more traditional manifestations, of older generations who have never learned English, (and vice versa; many Americans would never learn Chinese) - this phenomenon creates a clear opportunity for the exploitation of an insider's pedigree about a looming generalization of cultural malady and over-production at the steed of what largely seems to center around what ended up being a bum Valentine's Day weekend, imaginably, for many people involved. 

Let's face it. People are destitute, and over spending on their budgets and credit accounts, to a large degree. These things happen in cyclical fashion, yet there hadn't been a clear cut demographic of identifying these individuals, as my generation had, in the iconography of the metro-sexual. On one hand, that archetype still lives on in popular culture - simply (perhaps) different people, all being wrought through the engineering of consumer psychology in to well-targeted patrons of online retail and persona-based advertisements.

The subliminal impact of the ad-bearing mechanism is a tender subject to have breached, for many consumers, in that their visual identity and assimilating personas and outward portrayals of themselves, leveraged upon "fitting in," is at stake. People long to be admired and adored, as a universal nurturing need, of our primitive limbic mind selves, which operates underneath the surface.

To be succinct, I can admit that I'd overworked myself, quite commonly, over the past several months, or so, and it had become a chronic condition. Back pain, inflammation - that sort of thing. But the exploitation of the intrigue and mystique of the unfamiliar is an obvious concession within the scope of this coronavirus news topic drop, if one were to dig just beneath the most superficial of things.

Am I that uncommon, and so far out of reach, that an objective deconstruction of personal experience, given outgoing, pro-sociable inclusion and observation should go unheeded? I feel that the things I find and imagine to be common of myself, given others, to be, historically, a fairly level-gauge playing field and perspective, since I traverse through many cultural populations, and I interact indiscriminately with individuals and intelligence personnel, with relevant imagery, on a very consistent and regular basis, which I'd offer, is a reasonable agreement that my objectivity is a fairly well-grounded one. Hopefully I communicate to the literate population with little to hinder the boundaries between written words and capable understanding.

Moving ahead, pushing forth on productivity, given our human constraints of our physical selves, and also, given that our subliminal egos are perhaps bruised, for the sake of that Artificial Intelligence and Machine Learning models, being deployed and delegated, over humanly capable endeavor, is bound to be one of the humbling and intrinsic facets of that we are limited by human frailty, and everyone could use a break, at some point, and coronavirus offers that contingency a common layperson's chance at duly failing to fulfill responsibilities, whereas (to be redundant), we all needed a break from work, for how much productivity we had produced, and for what that wrought of our exertions, and exhaustion.

Thursday, March 5

Fleeing the iPigeon nest of home, once again.

One of my inherited and inlaid tenets of a sound psychology in the context of a home as nurturing environment hinges upon the simple assertion of that individuals deserve to be treated with kindness,  understanding, and respect towards their internal stability and trust capacity for themselves to thrive,  as internalized beings of their own volition and personal fortitude, as well as for the trust to rely well upon others, given the grace of a kind and gentle home nurturing environment. 

I'm of the belief that there is, typically,  no argumentative basis,  upon being formed and expressed,  out of anger,  that could have not been resolved better through simple patience, communication, and kindness.  I recently fled home,  after being significantly berated and yelled at by my sober living home / transitional housing manager. He pulled out significantly faulty and self-righteous claims over me,  and what had been going on with what he saw as faults of myself,  for not cleaning my bed,  and for letting my room and living space come slightly disorganized. 

He made claims of impossibility,  as I had received them - such as that he accused me of not having bought groceries for the place,  whatsoever.  Patently and simply not true.  This stance of a claim over what the truth of the matter was, given that I had been purchasing groceries for the place - left me with the disappointments I'd experienced as a child,  growing up,  and knowing well enough,  what appropriate treatment would look like,  but rather that anger and violence would, instead,  ensue out of the conflict that had developed,  of a child and caretaker (parent) dynamic, which I felt was a sorely wrought wound to uncover,  on the part of the housing manager,  with me as a client.  

That being said,  I went out in to the world, and failed at understanding the dangers that ensued,  as a result of expressing my life,  through my mobile devices,  whereas that my iPad Mini had become an object of targeted desire,  and I discovered it lost,  after finally sleeping,  for having been up for a week.

I woke up,  the next morning - fraught with the trauma of a dramatic complexity of one of Dante's infernal layers of Hell,  yet uniquely my own,  in the context of my own secret and subliminal fears.  

For some reason, beyond conceivable means of understanding,  I could not intuit where I ought to set out,  upon waking - for the sake of finding my way home.  I'd been imbued with the sense that I lived at Apple Computer headquarters,  of which there was a local establishment,  thereof,  in the South Park, DTLA area.  Somehow,  the context and reality of home had been significantly at issue, with the looming architecture,  and reflective glass doors seeming to suggest that there was an identity unknown, and exclusive,  perhaps,  of the institutional use of said architectural design.  

A Trojan Horse cryptic riddle had fully embedded itself,  of my vulnerable station in life,  having been woken up,  of the daylight,  whereas I desperately required significantly more sleep,  and I had been awake in to the early morning hours, posed with matters of ethics and loving-kindness towards others at issue,  for me,  as a challenge to follow up on,  in order of that I maintain my best,  most proper, and respectable self-image within the context of critical analysis of my Scientological worth,  as that fate and my fortunes would recall,  throughout life. More than that,  the micro-climates and gravitational harmonic suspension of stable barometer had been notably upset,  even during the daytime,  leading up to this night, finally ended with sleep. Many automotive vehicles had been notably put to their last legs,  for showing up in my walking vicinities,  that I noticed of them. The integrity of the tires and body suspension, grinding, and squealing, of the weight collapsing upon itself.  It happened to be the Ides of March. The moon, high overhead,  as that it were visible; and hot on this day, that of the weather.  

My personal shopping cart also fell subject to detriment,  as it broke upon itself,  the spokes,  and the axles.  I carried a heavy load of recyclable materials,  as I traveled to and from the recycling center, although I did make it back in to town,  and safe,  well enough,  to purchase another cart. 

I took the loss of my iPad Mini with grace,  having been much of the constitution of speaking on positive reinforcement psychology and well-being,  as well as of Christian virtues and tribulations, and of faith, in deeds,  words, and acts.  The stages of loss were contexts in my mind - very familiar.  

Thankfully, although posed with the context of coming to terms with my loss of material goods,  I had good graces,  aside from the superficiality of being attached,  and emotionally volatile,  as an alternative perspective that could have, I'd have taken on,  otherwise,  given a less stable foundation of support and expectations on me,  being that I'd been linearly conscious and attentive to the higher powers of authority and oversight, over the span of an entire week - my station in life,  one of consequence to live out,  for obviously best circumstances that could conceivably be offered me,  given that my attitudes and personal statements,  and the soundness, thereof,  not impinge upon common expectations and establishments of decency,  of which there was, thankfully, richly well supported,  and hours to come,  and had passed,  of the support of higher intelligence,  and of the rebuke of depravities; we were strong,  together.  

The iPad Mini,  all in all,  would be seen to have been ephemeral,  and a childish thing to publicly bereave. I packed up,  and moved on,  and slept for the days that ensued, until now. 


Latest post.

The Sticker Time art, illustrative, and photography miniatures collection, with annotations.

Welcome to the online slight exhibition and annotations for the Sticker Time sticker collection. The Sticker Time art mini...’s most popular recent blog articles and posts