Wednesday, November 05, 2003


sitting with the laptop, hands splayed on the keyboard, they seem the same. The black keys, the flesh hands, the indio-techno playing on the stereo

no real problems today, no great realizations either, sat through meetings, cruised with the sun roof open, kissed my youngest good night. Not many more of those left.

tabalas and some saxaphone in a techno groove


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