I mean I had forgotten its january until neal reminded me but then if you spend 17 hours in a box with a tripod and a dial-in then there’s every chance you’ll wake up in doctor who like a martin clunes cabbage head and be expected to strategize your way out of a cardboard wiki. there’s been many times when you could have so easily have just slipped out to the decking and given your last crisps to the dalliance in the video conference room but as the cat strings of vicarious premiums get dragged across the floor of fire exit tunnels you creep ever closer to being the last bounty in the box. if there’s only one flavour it means I don’t like it. not like ski yogurts used to be in those little milk churns or your first plate of spaghetti but the consuming arpeggi of doubt that cankers over the frozen ocean and nibbles the life from your broadbanded life support system without that you really don’t exist and its full of antelopes of horses in here. can’t even uncrack the box tops whence I’d supplant nature with a feeble incantation of weekly meetings designed specifically to undermine the public confidence. when you hit the bottom you’ll have a penchant for autobiography but naturally it will be cack-handed diatribes fit for soup but hold fast on that idea if only as a illustration of the possibilities after the death of it all. you’re nearly as old now as I will be at the end. but I’ll have a spreadsheet with my actions in yellow whereas yours are all overdue in red. I might even yank it back on topic but I’ve seen worse things happen in the seafood aisle.
don’t want to be afraid but when its so far away you poke the embers of winter and you’ve only got february to look forward to. you’ll need 60 days before that happens and you nearly had it there. look in the box.