Ranting from the top floor across the city

Lou sings Lisa says as I sit above a city soaked this morning, drying out in March superzero breezes, sweet pre-sunset shadows and light. It's been a while, as we bloggers say, I've been so bad, feel guilty to've been away, but hey I didn't have to be here, you're lucky I even take a dump here! I'm a victim of my rules, and so anyone's morality makes everyone a fool. Trouble is top stuff doesn't follow Western timelines, three dimensions, it's more like horizontal heuristics, the stuff of thought generated via semantic linguistics - or so I'm learning from an unreadable book I just have to mention.

I switched where I sat, and that is the source of this scat. When I peek across the city, bombarded by baroque, as towers grow from mounds of dirt, where faroff sun-dried cyclists prompt mental microflirts, you get perspective, or maybe just discrete novel excretive blarghblectives, whatever - I can't be against anything new - as I rub the velvet of my button-down shirt.

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