and then memories fade, they do. The lights that once blinded and dazzled aswemove`solongago are now a memory of a memory, and then the voice that delighted now no longer resounds. I can't even remember why, or how.it was, or just is. Accordingly, I'm as ambivalent. It costs rather too much to think, sometimes. Just pluck the string off the shirt that's tickling your tummy and don't.even think whether this sentence fits in. It doesn't. Tickling's a happy word. did you know that.
To recapitulate [as julia in daddy long legs would say of her professor], it's an ambivalent night. When your mind is stoned and your attitude would rival jay chou's. You jut one leg out onto the coffee table and loll back as far as your back on your backless chair will allow you to, looking sufficiently angsty yet in control at the same time. All perfectly natural.
On nights like these you don't care what to make of your writing; you don't care to form or shape it. The dozen setences that once paraded around your head don't. [don't what?, neil chomksy of -colourless green idea sleep furiously- would ask. but he's an anarchistic linguist, so we shall leave him out. it's more medalena than him, even if I know chomsky better through nerney, and again from political science.] Even punctuation used to make a difference; tonight I propose to talk too much, and too little. The previous sentence is [is? was?] missing a noun, and by extension, a pronoun. did you know that.

I dab idly at the stiff keyboard with two peices of caltex tissue paper, lazily lean over and fluff the screen. I'm predisposed to be perfectly boring tonight.