Twinkle Toes with Bulgakov

"Do you believe no human is worth saving?"-- Jeremy Irons

Foreign analysts can lead one to blossom provocative ideas of which you can almost convince yourself to attempt, like cashing on the new age of polemical half truths by our adversaries. I was going to contact the fabled genesis heir to the KGB and place myself at their disposal to troll a web of lies in exchange for a transfer out of the 202 housing system, and still might do it, since finding work at home is difficult, but then reassessed, why would Russian Federation handlers treat me any better than Philadelphia's minority power class, tethering themselves to state rock candy? What could I convey to the FSB that wouldn't lead them to turn my missives over to the FBI, and what would earning myself a federal file achieve, in the attempt to deploy Slavic cronyism to give myself one last boost? The only thing I have that RT media would value is a verifiable life of white indifference in institutional depositories conjoined to black violence and mental health dysfunction which has broken me down, on top of my chronic incontinence. One also assumes being a petrol state is not the highlight of the season, as a 44 dollar barrel of oil is still low, despite the Canadian crisis. Sometimes I tend to forget I'm a writer first, and that this account hasn't down anything for me except to enrage decency, and, conversely, lead to trivialization, much like Niven's caviler reversion to form at Seberg's instigation in Bonjour Tristesse.

Sagan's work is a mid century take on social manner, catty ploys, people not knowing what to do with themselves, youthful angst breaking the yolk of restraint to carry the first real wounds of growing up.

I've always been an online junkie, but these days, it is quantitatively different. We fear moral majorities of a different sort, and if Google wants my scar tissue out of the way, if my intense stride is unacceptable, aren't they doing the right thing, if all the years of abuse and failing against poverty in part due to corruption, hasn't taught me acceptance, but transformed me into an equally failing warrior? I'm so over extended that the private space every writer needs, whether pure reporter or not, is creched into a treble. This isn't particularly beneficial to twilight, in whatever way we sip the cup of cessation. A developmental mastermind is a contradiction in terms, isn't it?