Sunday, October 28, 2012


The stealth bomber lounges,
refreshingly constant,
with flanks of sleek metal
and eyes leonine.
"Await this December,"
said she to the Manza
with frankness and longing; 
"you will then be mine."

This is my life right now: impromptu love McWhirtles to my car. (Mine.) It isn't even a sonnet. Sonnets in my turn of phrase can be excused.

(The maniacal screencapping of two Star Trek: TOS videogames is also in progress before I have to buckle down and begin studying in earnest, but yeah.)