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There has been a forcefield between me and my keyboard of late. I've been writing, old format, scribbling on green engineering paper, with red pen. Mostly waxing disenfranchisement, and political homelessness. Up is down, left is right, two plus two no longer equals four. A child of the 80's being dragged into the 21st century, wondering where the light-saber and jet-pack is he was promised. Self-concious, awkward, and constantly wondering "what's next?", I trudge the day, maybe melancholy, or half happy, still curious, and kinda objective. And not at the very least, which I struggle to remind myself, is that I'm sober, whole, and without artificial sweetener. Whiskey-3-Charlie: What Is, What was, What Can. As soon as I get over myself, I'll get right on it.

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