Food coma after food coma. Terminal. (Terminal food coma still better than the terminal in Kansas City, MO). Svelte 96 today. Sad, no more 100s for me, I'm just like the rest sweating.

Too much light means too much day left between the planets. Seems they're sharing secrets, likely with women. I'd come closer to the truth of it all, but my wings were folded into Origami swans by Icarus' greatest grandchild.

Damned kids.

Still, sun's close enough to reach out and touch; between it and me is just a layer of atomized caramel coating the lungs in burnt sugar. No one in California dies of cancer; they die of candy.

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