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It's odd living at every time of day. It's like you're living beyond jetlag.

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So it is hot at the moment and so i appreciate when i have to sleep during the night. Not just because of the shelter from heat though, now being bereft of the wonderment that is air-con in the new home after seven plus years of this marvellous blessing. Still there are many daytime creatures that even in this quiet leafy suburb for humans, we find ourselves amidst, who condense into a raucous hub of activity, so there goes my sleep under the cacophony of the vocal bird life of the city.


Thereby this penitence is a centre, a focus of my attention for this post. as i dryly munch away the remainder of the apparently healthy hazelnuts and almonds that are to substitute for a meal in a time that is perhaps not a meal time nao for my body. Is it, i can't remember. Somehow I seem to never the less keep getting fatter.


This isn't why i say on the boards that i live outside of time though, this is just a central american rhum filled moment of gripe that became a post, for little no reason at all.




Why is my mouth so dry, I'm a good kid, I work hard. I never miss a day/night/afternoon/morning's work.



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i'm feeling like i've just come through to the conclusion of process opposite to the one which francis ford coppola says he goes through when re-reading something the day after writing it. for him it goes like this ...


"I believe that when you write something, when I write something, I turn it over and I don’t look at it. Because I believe the writer, the young writer, has a hormone that makes them hate what they’ve written. And yet, the next morning, when you look at it, you say, “Oh that’s not bad.” But the first second you hate it. " artikl


Where as whilst reasonably satisfied with the post as i peered at through rhum squinted glasses yesterday. Today all that is left, is remorse.

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