Comanche Midnight

Lord have mercy, I make mistakes. Especially within this war of convenience versus personal estate control.

I’m trying to remember what I’m fighting for when the Salt Lake City hymnal comes over the playlist. I’ve got a knee on deck, a crippled back which i’m trying to right. There is no Pam for the warped griddle. Working towards massive follower counts can’t be right, but I’m trying to put everything in its proper place. The thing is, and what this bookstore is teaching me, is that it’s the writing that matters.

I know these things. I’m just having a hard time. I’m playing right into Lirpa’s venture capitalist contentions. I don’t know if I can go home again. I’m always the prodigal son and I don’t know which direction to carry on in.

I’ve got ideas. Big plans!

I am a fashion designer. This is Knut Hamsun’s Hunger. Comanche Midnight. Like as though ello is a battleground. And I’ve got to keep on keeping on, with style, class, and composure. Exposure. Thoughts contaminating the stew. Continue. You can’t go home again. Let the book read you.

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