Lithium

"There's nowhere to go." Anthony Edwards, in non-submersible LA, nuked

Me and my damn crusades (scowling). I never told you, whoever you are, how much my volubility boomeranged off of Joe, and if this isn't my neighbor, the account is close enough, but even engaging Riverside's building gossip has me sick at heart. He looks exactly the same today as he did in 1991 when I met him in Linda's office, and he does exactly the same thing today as he did when I pitied him while busing by to work, and I know, if I can't disperse conifer seedlings toward some change soon, I am going to hit a brick wall, give my notice in about eight weeks, crawl into a hole, and cross my fingers that I can reach an endpoint before I turn into a hate crime on the Inquirer's metro page. And how can I possibly hate this Presbyterian community so much? Easy. Diamond Park apartments was the worst mistake I ever made. Riverside was a contingency which turned into a prosecution. Until 2007 I was simply defiant; this has changed into a megalomania for a payback well past amortization, and every subsidized housing studio looks and remains exactly the same, except for the exceptionally impoverished, radiating like Stewart's forceful interview to grasp Macbeth's motivation. I must miss sex a great deal if the Patrick Stewart of 55 reverberates with sheer awe for the women who could have held such a man. He would have annihilated my homeliness like a blow up doll, if we're discussing leagues.

Yet even in Stewart's meme, (hated word!) the drive to win feminine approval radiates his definition, not as he is today at 75, but on Trek? I'd freeze time itself to do anything for that man, to be desired by that man, not so much extraordinarily handsome as someone who commands, with certainty, sighing for antithetical ghosts.