Moving is happening, but it isn't me. I'm the one holding down the anchorthreads while the ship goes skippy over the thunderwaves. That's me, Lady Poverty.

Sleep-eyed woman with the head (and quo-vadis planner) full of things-to-do, dribbling out of her ears with no convienient pensieve to wand-silver them into. Dentata repairo this morning. Tounge still attempting to heal from knife wounds.

There are many who ought to be reached out and spoken to, investigated, cat-sniffed, but I'm a bit like the wounded and harried rabbit at the moment. Winds should calm down by next week. Perhaps there will be some dust-settling long enough to regenerate a new Doctorform, fire up the tardis, and wish the past week far, far away.

Maybe not week. Just most of saturday-up-to-now. Time Time Time...

This isn't the hip-shot I am meaning to write, but toe-tapping mother wants to eat lunch and there are apartment women who want to show us pretty places to live we can't secure yet.

Horoscope been telling me to enlarge my testicles for two weeks now. Metaphorically speaking, anyway. Wodnering if I should pay attention to the spam in my damn inbox...

At least fucking-as-I-realise-it isn't a felony (or even a crime) anymore.

<<agé chose>>

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