לָמַה לֹא

Silver voiced, my ears ring with likelihood.  and I stand copper handed with a crafting hart. A solid stopper to prevent brain loss. Only with time will we measure the vacuum power without. Birthday wishes are not telling to the end. I plot what is to be said like a play wright fighting writers block. 

And how is that for telling  truth scary  I know, but picnics happen sometime and do so with such joy.  This is where Beckett rolls over from false abstraction. I have nothing to distract from what is going to be going on.  Only unbearably weighty conjecture.  

More and more to come