(Or “Writerhead & the power of place along the offspring of butchery in broad daylight…)

There’s nothing as mellow-sweet as waking up and your entire body being like “go Write…THERe~”, knowing obedience is a logistical given.

…except maaaybeee an almond croissant.

Which is normally not my style.

Nougat, powdered sugar and flakes of almonds all over the place like you’re a dementedly happy raccoon no matter what cha do.

Which is why, as a Septemberian, ya gotta pick yer battles and battlegrounds .

You know!

Special occasions!

Or make the setting to partake of the madness pretty to amplify the messiness-

…and dust up as you go because I just can Not…ya know~ just…sit in … all that detritus without killing someone 😬.

But dear God!

Recalibration, indeed~ Venice!

Fn Cosmically chiropractic!

Just like…wow.

…worked on the book section yesterday holed up at Butcher’s Daughter & got more intricately done across two hours than imaginable from the outside, looking in. Twas like a dream.

The GB protocols of deep immersion sans interruption and systemic returns proves themselves again and again.

What’s funniest to me is I couldn’t write here last few times. At Butcher’s. Try as I might. Everytime I crossed its threshold To write for GB or GC my R&D production/designhead would click on at like Mach5.

Seriously! I was deeeeeeep in reshaping the various now released grievechronics and all of it would turn off & a diff head would click on.

The AOLAB Active-Art decks were made tangible wedged in at that counter they had two more people than they needed smashed around.

It was a melee of mellow madness, I tell ya! But it produced the most stilling hum of creativity in me. There’s stuff on the cusp of coming to market now that came to be across my sojourns out here…literally here…because it rubs my markethead in the most perversely sanctified way. Always has.

…but this time…I can.

Write.

& I have.

Syllogistic sign of new eras?

Or the sweet press of possibly more perfected places for this Glyph’s paradaisical expressions …that want what is had here held onto and honored as everything shifts into its truest form?

Who the fuck knows, but God?