Day Six Thousand Four Hundred Seventy-Four

June Gloom, they say it brings spring flowers to bloom? Is that true? Maybe it’s a lie. There are many lies in this world these days. Living near the shore, June gloom is common. Not as common as a commoner, but not as rare as a commodore.

I’ve been a bore. Good gods grief. What a bore I’ve been. It’s not as through I smirked at play or singing. Or was brought amber delights, with Tobacco Vanilla for fresh perfume. No I had to bear the pain and find my own. Which there wasn’t any, nor delight of fun and games. It’s been twenty years of hurt, heartache, and sorrow.

It was no easy blow to bear. It would have tore your heart out. It did mine. However these poets all want to be read, fed, and patted on the back for writing prose that sounds like hose. Good non-sense is hard to come by, still more difficult to write.

It’s been a lot of days, I keep track of June gloom. The pain so common that one day bleeds into the next with no real change. The midnight ether, like a candle gone out. Snuff, it’s enough. No more. We don’t need what hurts us more than that which comforts us. Still the ungodly truth hurts like hell, and yet we bear it. What knaves we must be to believe in Hero’s in fables, the likes of Joan of Arc have never been seen.

It’s all goose chases, so they can keep you believing in something long enough to get the sack over your head and eat you. I hate trolls. Well orcs aren’t any good either, but they will have no place to rest their dead.

Top soil is what we need. The process is like a lonely planet with clever bots that dig, and plow; only to retire to better processors. The likes of Digital havens for the borg must be ships with oil.

Planets were meant to be home for lonely travelers looking for a shore. They should never be run to oppress their kin. My next of kin knows my Galactic address and have me in their hearts. Which still beat like the worthy stars burn hot.

Some travel, some hitch a ride. But on starship titanic, The bots clean digital bits, in the tune of pixelated feather dust, that which never rusts. I’m bored trying to make lightbulbs, and father knows; my efforts to launch are like gravy trying to jump from the plate to a cup.

The dish is served cold, along side a dead chicken, roasted with jam, pickled in gin, and served with greens that have no taste. The dog thank god, likes turkey.

Won’t make port, might be better than a sinking ship. Centuries down the line, someone else’s problem. Maybe mine. Rock and roll changed my life, but I don’t need Elvis and his wife. Maybe my Dog will learn to dance with the likes of Mozart, written by Goeth in candle light while chanting like a monk from a distant and unknown sun.