Murphison reminded me the other day that I had not done ANY science in years. That whimpering CRETIN. No, Murphison. No, no. After your comments, what I haven't done is slept. In 6 days.

Oily and dripping, my vision smears thoroughly. Only a pomegranate remains in my iceboxx. Typing is dry, tactical and electric. Space holds time in its woven basket, and I am the cradled baby wrapped in linen. FORTUNESFORTUNES.

O, Fortunate ones: Delay me. Delay me eternally. I am the broken back of the winged pegasus. No, I am a bleeding nest. Their songs keep me awake. God, I hate the band. They are practicing downstairs and I am eating their noise. It is being eaten by Herbert. There are two new band-lings and they are like the other two except newer, leaner; Hungrier.

I am existing in a tiger-den.

Their stripes shackle me and their invoices papercut. Papercutz. Papyrus/beehive.

fortunn>nate = 11111111111111111.1