Guess I'll just blame it on the paper acid. . .

I wanna make Art, but all that comes out are cartoon devils. It's like they're dancing at me and taunting me.

Big stuff goin' on here. Not sure how much to blog about on account of professional accountabilities and all. The change of the season always seems to wanna drag the rest of life into it's shifting movement. It's dancing at me with the cartoon devils and everything is on the cusp of reinventing itself. It appears that the push I need to get over the hump is less than a congratulatory pat-on-the-back from my own arm that barely has the strength to keep me up, let alone shove and pierce any sort of boundaries. Maybe the wolf-blown-brick-house-leveling breath that I'm looking for is not gonna cut it. Maybe just a pin prick hole in the membrane will suffice as a catalytic trigger to slowly break-down the surface. Let nature do the work. Physics and erosion and patience.

But who's got the time for that?