Dust on the Bottle

So, here we are again, you and me, on my own. Assuming it's 23h, an almost symmetrical 40 hours until takeoff. True, it is backward first (backwardation?) but it is the start that counts. 17 hours from the new world to the holy land seems to easy anyhow.

So much to do before then. Remember? The (in)genius decision to move - now reaping that whirlwind - IOL's annoyance at SNSMR and that hassle (the irony of acronyms if you struggle to recall), the mill tour today (find that man a present in Egypt), Aquilo, 41 in fines at the library, the ripped laundry basket, Graves and his enjoyment tonight and 25 years (years!) of playing together, that beige hat dancer, and the soft rain (oh what rain tonight, ya beauty) and the cover at the lower deck and closed at O'Carroll's and the recent kick-out at the OT so the Split Crow.

The fuckin' Split Crow. Where once upon a time you were banned for life for stealing a sign, the remnants of which now lie above your head. Where you first saw the Wingman/Gongshow shirts in 2003, where the threesome was debated over kisses, Keiths birthday with Feroz and the molester, the fucking shark, and how many St.Pat's? In short, a good place to be thinking aloud for posterity.

That by way of prelude tonight. Actual/intended post above/next. (And so only, strangely, suspenseful to me, since I'm likely the only one to read these words a-first)