Bill Credits, Serial Rape-age, and a Potato Salad conglomerate of time's incomprehensibility.

Graceful raceless, restless ladies, ticking on the clock, and me, with my diddle-bop: we all killed time to some extent, in our own fashion, that was, within our own arguably limited frame of reference.  Someone called out "Order 66" and the apprentices were jumping over one another; my solar calculator was stymied by a cloudbank to the southeast, and I was on the verge of making another helpful pictograph.

I was about early, taken to the outside, having a thing of my own own, and watching flickering lights, and all, pay-outs to customers in the form of bill credits, and all--things that tend to madden people that hold the shares, and why--to hold the shares, just serial rape-age on a grand scale, sanctioned and held up by the law.

I killed time forever dead, with no hope of reprieve, at all, to no extent imaginable, and yet others talked of things like reliving the past; I had figured I would have the same experiences, if repeated, the same mistakes and failures: it was the only way to make the different world sensible.

And yet.

There were other considerations, indictments, lines of talk, Nickie changing her hairstyle, as if to kind of single the herd something; they say ignorance is bliss, you know, and a kind of stability to ignorance and sadness, and how they say, having such dreadful feelings, that they can't feel--the very truth is that, as the song says, Martin Lawrence, they "know no good", and how stupid can we be not to see it right in front of our eyes?

I would and have just let certain of those things just whither away, saying to myself, "lessons learned" and all, and I saw that pictograph again, from 25-75 percent was the impetus, with a cone of some kind of specific something around the 25, and I said, that's my career, that's my life, my past my present and possibly my future, in which I fly some sort of burning chariot across the sky and fire poison arrows down in the name of jokes, laughing as people dance to evade those missiles.

As Einstein put it, as it was adapted for the idea of the Global Positioning System, "you could put a really long stick, one end of the ground, the other high in the sky, and guesstimate the ground coordinates from the air, or the air coordinates from the sky.  Really, Albert, it sounds so sensible, and I guesstimate the relative position of some continuity from the far past in relation to the present, along with projections of future successes and failures, and I come up with the most surprising potato salad one could have, like a heresy unto itself, and barely comprehensible as lunch.  Welcome to my website.