I have a cut on my tongue. Right at the end. You can't help raking it against your teeth to experience the tiny, terrible thrill of pain. I have NOTHING! I hate the sound the door makes behind me, kind of a squeaky thump. It sounds like a cut right on the end of my tongue, and I really do have nothing. I've been prolific today, churning out a review and a long Cubrants article, shopping, scraping my tongue on the backs of my teeth, pleading with middle schoolers for small pockets of sanity. Enya on the snowy way to school today. I felt very big, alive. The snow was delicious as I sucked down my daily glass of destiny and smiled in the mirror.

What the hell was I gonna say? It's right there at the tip of my tongue. I want a nap. Last night I was in Africa, but it was not Madagascar. Some obscure country where the president is changed about every 5th day, driving around in Jeeps with open tops under open skies. It was a very moving night. Sand and air were filled with a larger purpose, the spirits were around me speaking in some dialect, Bubi perhaps, and I understood them, and the rivers were muddy and filled. I keep awaking in Africa, not a recurring dream but a recurring theme. There's something there. Perhaps it is my repressed traveling fantasies coming to life as a thunderous and four dimensional wet dream.
Someday...

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