The edge of reality sweetly sharpened by the whetting jazz. Campy browns off greenish, lent vividness and brought alive, in life, by the understated back and forth between horn and paino. Gentle sights and smells propelling soft informed comfortable conversation and this attempt at imprinting the scene.

I'm at the Parlor, naturally, and now riding the hangover of the ecstatic excitement I enjoyed the first little while back. After another nine AM Econ class I fully expected to be canceled, I'm trying to figure out how to paste back together the pieces of my life.

Yes it is that bad.

Ok, it's not, but I got a coffee and it's raspberry, and I don't like raspberry,  and I have things to do, that I have to do, and these things involve thinking about things I didn't want to think about and I'm so damned whiny I just need my head to shut up and do it! And it occurs to me that I am Miranda.

O woe the day.