Meanwhile, still no convenient place for things. Winter's approaching, quite ready to settle down, but my coat and sweaters and this hoodie, no place for them. They get thrown on the closest horizontal surface and wait there for morning or whenever they'll be called up again.

Me too, really. Just another number, punch in codes to indicate my every move (ok, hyperbole) to the evil machine watching me, comparing my codes to scheduled codes... checking adherence.

It doesn't click; I don't stick to this artificiality, this sliced up existence that makes me have to watch the clock, watch ticking tocks or oscillating atoms, keep tabs on how the hours add up. Not my bag, being a number. If anything, irrational as pi, all of us, not meant to be mangled into numeric nonsense that justifies expenses in terms of acronyms.

A cog in a greater wheel, and that's not a clockwork kind of cog, more like an acronymic COG and I'm free to be a Child Of God or a Childish Old Grump or a Concurrent Original Gesticulation...if intellectual property law allows.

My brain leaks out in puddles I can't hope to protect.