4-14-93 Here We Are.

And here we've been.  Tomorrow is serious mail day.  And I do mean serious. Every little letter you'd ever want to write, write.  Postcard, envelope, the gear, the script, all together it means communication.  Ha ha.  Sure it does.   A communicable point, right?  And what holds the forward door?  How can one assume by whence they came?  There's rarely a connection twixt the two.  And off and off they go. Work, work, work, and never stop, until that day that's planned and has your hand in its unveiling.  So we go, off and off.

    Captions beneath the frame,
    denoted little to his brain,
    And after he had looked enough,
    He pulled out some gloppy stuff,
    that he'd been hoarding all week,
    From ever since he'd been called meek,
    By that big and ugly, traveling sheik.

Hands clasped hands as the feet shuffled past.  Words were mumbled, half-somber, half not.  Cold hands, warm hands, thin, dead hands.  Words of light-spoken trappings or full of low rumble.

Anyway, the time went well, and times may continue in such direction.  Ye shall zee.