If I said what I meant all the time I would regret it, although feel better, momentarily, before everything collapsed into hurried words and hot-headed agony. So I’m not. And I haven’t. And as you can tell by the lack of activity here, I’ve been keeping it low-key. How else am I supposed to keep you interested and consistently coming back if I’m not shrouded in a bit mystery, huh?
Essentially, I’m summing up this month-long hiatus from writing as the time I buckled napalm to my actions and reactions in order to give you something  good to read--a vacation from scrutinizing thoughts and assessing behaviour and just carrying on in a reckless manner regardless if I remember how or why. You guys cool with that?
So as a 1-2-punch update: life has been a parachute opened, impossible to shove back into the case. So much has happened, started, stopped, and continues on in unknown directions. Read a little, seen a lot. I’ve sat porchside, stoopside, poolside, on the right, and wrong side of bars with my tight little clad of friendly bandits. Some of the writing work I’m doing is chomping away at my senses and poisoning my vocabulary, but then the art!…oh the art projects I’m involved in makes it feel like I’m grabbing a brick and busting through the window of whatever’s making me feel trapped—pure satisfaction.
 My partner in crime is back from Scandinavia. The moon is increasingly more influential. I’m finding new nerve endings I never thought I had. The city! The city is alive and degrees away from exploding some days. I love it; but also am burgeoning in time spent out of it.
Some days are like cinematic feverous dreams, like fireworks in th eyes and swollen kisses and hallucinations that certain moments will last forever. And then there are days spent with my head in between my knees, gently rocking, trying to find balance again. Another nothing. Another something, Another summer.