I know that time is a single picture

Amanda and Sarah and Anna and I were in the back room, with the nice guy who can't sing. At least I'm told that he was nice and can't sing. Things were said that did not come to fruition.

It's like that girl in the movie where everyone is skating on the edge, and though she keeps running, the weave and the weft get in the way, and the needle which was threaded at the Delly Place threatens to puncture someone's eye in the shadow of the factory where the angels watch poor souls trying to express themselves in coffee shops.

A long time ago, Whatsherface explained to me the purpose of going to church: not the one where you meet business contacts, or cruise for ass, or get credit in some moral superiority program, or get harassed by some jackhole named Василий even though he's not Russian, or to serve a higher power, or any of that, but the one where you become part of a greater whole.

On the other side of the swimming pool, someone is dipping vis toe into the water. The conventional wisdom is that ve should plunge right in, withstand the shock of the temperature change, and be clearly better off for it. There is no doubt in the mind of conventional wisdom that this is the best outcome for ver. All factors are deemed irrelevant at this point.

The same cannot be said for someone about to eat a poison ivy sandwich.

I'm gonna need an Almdudler, gespritzt.