I Do Some Eccentric Dancing.

Twiddle-twiddle Away At My Softly Clicky Keyboard For A While, Making Twiddly Adjustments All Along- And Then Print What I Have Twiddled. Glare At The Printout And Snarl And Curse And Scribble Almost Illegibly All Over It With A Ballpoint Pen. Go Back To The Machine And Enter The Scribbles. Repeat This Procedure Until I Hate The Very Meaning Of Every Word I Know.

I Do Not Twitter. I Don't Want To Twitter, And I Don't See Any Point In Twittering. The Last Thing I Want To Do Is Tell People What I'm Doing At The Moment Because I'm Probably Not Doing What I'm Supposed To Be Doing.

In The Beginning, Atlanta Was Without Form, And Void; And It Still Is.

A Dog Will Make Eye Contact. A Cat Will, Too, But A Cat's Eyes Don't Even Look Entirely Warm-blooded To Me, Whereas A Dog's Eyes Look Human Except Less Guarded. A Dog Will Look At You As If To Say, "what Do You Want Me To Do For You? I'll Do Anything For You." Whether A Dog Can In Fact, Do Anything For You If You Don't Have Sheep (i Never Have) Is Another Matter. The Dog Is Willing.

I Just Think Lots Of Words Have Physicality. How About The Word 'wobble?' You Think That's Arbitrary? When You Say The Word 'wince,' You Wince. How About That?