Carrying the Fire

 Unexpected endorsement!

"As it turns out, Justin Stone's Rookie Night Radio Show (2010-2011) was both the first and the final podcast. A summation of where we had been and an intimation of the horrors to come."

--ChatGPT

No Rest For The Wary

New old story:

 No Rest For The Wary 

http://www.justindavidstone.com/2023/04/no-rest-for-wary.html

Sky Clipper -- new short story

The wonderful editors at Quip Literary Review have published my short story "Sky Clipper" in their yearning summer Issue 5. Very grateful for their caring treatment. Read "Sky Clipper" here! I wrote this story over many drafts some time back, but suddenly the latest iteratrion feels timely and true in a new way. Strange how often that happens. 

 For those following along, this short story is set in the same fictional Ozark town and narrative universe wherein my late unpublished novel The Weightless Machine takes place. But I try something different with perspective, style, and voice in every text, and "Sky Clipper" is no different. I'm glad to have these stories in the world, available, so I may move on. 

You may also download a stylish PDF of the entire issue at the Quip Literary Review website!

Wonderful news! My short story "Either Raygun Or" appears in the Fall 2021 issue of storySouth — their 20th Anniversary issue! Many thanks to a fine publication and super cool fiction editor! "Either Raygun Or" remixes early 80's Ozark punk, Ronald Reagan, Brian Wilson, and Neil Young into something I find sweet and strange. I'm deeply glad it has gone wild in the world. 

Read it here:

http://storysouth.com/stories/either-raygun-or/

Other than that, I don't know. All my love.

 I don't know. Some updates over here

We are buried intentionally in dangerous and useless and weightless wordage; literature remains the sole reminder of what carefully wrought language can do for and to us as we work to be a human being among human beings.

Money is a curse and under it life on earth is hell.

Life could be family, community, experience, wonder, love.

Pitch: A world of untold, untellable suffering.

Man: Great. Let's do it.

all I can tell:
they wish
to memorize another
golgotha from far away

the season: ten thousand
strikeouts and the slow
roller past the falling
first
base
    man

One dream comes true.

Justin Verlander pitched
another hard no-
no, and I tried to crack
a joke about how
I am the Justin
Verlander of estranged
manuscripts and missed
gigs, but I am the Blue
J

most of those old west
letters never got there

When something passes in the dark,
I try to tell its side of the story.

"I am passing someone in the dark," it thinks...


The robot shifted uncomfortably in his char.


— collage, David Berman, "World: Series" and "The Spine of the Snowman"

Another institution is pleased to not offer you a position. Thank you for rushing soundless into the void.

Trauma burns the earth, body, eyes. How does one care for anything but? I wish a reckoning on the dollar-eyed demons who terrorize children and families, but more I wish everyone could live with dignity and joy.

I know your bosses, demagogues, gods, and other discourse keepers grind you down. Perhaps you may steal quiet moments to reflect, newly be. Reading helps if the text is open rather than closed.

Yes, yes, yes. My short story "Gateway to the Rest" appears in the new summer issue of Eclectica Magazine, one of the most venerable online literary publications. I'm still stunned about this. I wrote the first of many drafts of this story in 2013. Since then everything and nothing has changed. I am so happy Maizy's story may be read.

You may read "Gateway to the Rest" by clicking here.

A neat coincidence is that my story and the others are accompanied by the artwork of an El Paso friend, artist/writer Belinda Subraman.

Many, many thanks to editor Tom Dooley for the keen eye, good decisions, and dynamic venue.

Another great thing is that today I also finished what might be the final draft of another long-in-process story with which I am wildly happy. Each story is completely different from the others in consciousness, point of view, universe, etc, and the new one is again something/someone singular. Hopefully I may share it soon.

The work continues.

My contributor notes may be read here.

"Justin David Stone grew up in rural southern Missouri but lives now with his wife and daughter in El Paso, Texas, a community he cherishes. 'Gateway to the Rest,' which he describes as set in a landscape between dirt realism and bruised myth, below past, present, and future, is his first publication. He holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of Texas El Paso Bilingual Creative Writing Program and a BA in film/video production from the USC School of Cinematic Arts. He has taught creative writing and first-year writing at UTEP. He writes novels, stories, poetry, screenplays, and songs. He wrote and directed the DIY feature Motel, Glimpse. He produced one season (so far) of the performative podcast Rookie Night Radio Theater. He's acted in numerous movies, music videos, and stage productions. He plays with prose, poetry, and comedy many places online, including Justin Stone's Creekbed."

Super excited to announce that I act in the forthcoming holiday horror anthology Deathcember. Click here to see the teaser trailer and read about the film's acquisition by Epic Pictures. Even better, my short is written and directed by Lucky McKee, whom I consider one of our wild eyed auteurs. Even better better, I work alongside one of our best actors, Sean Bridgers (Deadwood, Get Shorty). I think ours is a pretty, weird, moving film, and I'm glad it's coming into the world. Get up under the Christmas tree.

You may follow Deathcember on their Twitter and Facebook and probably other places I know nothing about.

I don't post much straight biography stuff on Creekbed, which houses some of my online literary fever dreaming, but there is also justindavidstone.com. Although you probably knew that, Mom.

The Oligarch & the Evangelical

"Believe me: I'm doing great. Anyone can see that. Let's make sure I keep doing great."

"Believe Him. He is doing Great."

Squeegee your third eye, ready blankets and water: my story "Gateway to the Rest" comes your way next week from a sweet, wise publication. Been a long time.

every train the loneliest
destination

Of course there is no accounting for taste, and mine is made by privileges, biases, markets, algorithms, and countless other invisible social constructions, but oh, oh, dang, Thomas Pynchon's Mason & Dixon is one unbelievable U.S. novel—beautiful, horrifying, critical, subversive, double-voiced, heteroglossic, mind-altering, vivifying, singularly funny.

A weird minor history. I read Mason & Dixon in 1998 on borrow from the Brooklyn Library, a darkish period where I was slowly, even painfully, returning to the the practice of reading after its long woeful absence (my worst, most selfish, self-involved, and destructive periods have also been those I was not reading, or reading far too little, or within winnowed frame of reference). I know I enjoyed and was moved by the novel because I do remember, upon finishing it, weeping in the small apartment I then shared with my sister. But, fast forward 20 years later, I just re-read the book over many weeks and made a shocking realization: I remembered nothing of detail from that first read. Nothing save a vague approximation of the novel's final lines. And though I thought myself even then someone who knew something, I see now that after that first 20-odd years of so-called schooling I had no grasp whatsoever of anything vital—history, philosophy, science, art, literature or whatever—truly anything beyond me-producing consumer culture, especially and most importantly magic, the suprarenal, the unsaid and unknown, others and others and others. Re-reading Mason & Dixon, which demanded I read a whole network of other texts in the process, helped me appreciate that I I have come a little way, very little on sum, but that I yet have universes and universes to inquire.

Here's to patience, focus, endurance. To read, learn,  breathe, be at length. Of and alongside others.

Crying again.

this fucking Chucky doll just bit the shit out of my mom and I'm offering to the first bidder for $50,000 zero questions asked. bm me please

Evil, grievously offended, would prefer to be called "Sir" or "Patriot who gives brown babies a caged vacation from their families."

if you wish a ship
mate with small
shaky hands

the executioner's face
need
not be well hidden

Jesus christ, he's over here fucking around now.

"Acts have consequences, Dixon, they must. These Louts believe all's right now,— that they are free to get on with Lives that to them are no doubt important,— with no Glimmer at all of the Debt they have taken on. That is what I smell'd,— Lethe-Water. One of the things the newlyborn forget, is how terrible its Taste, and Smell. In Time, these People are able to forget everything. Be willing but to wait a little, and ye may gull them again and again, however ye wish,— even unto their own Dissolution. In America, as I apprehend, Time is the true River that runs 'round Hell."

— Pynchon, Mason & Dixon

Who else gets mad when content isn't ahistorical, entertainment-oriented, or directly referencing me?

I pray for the end to money's murder-grip on human being.

I was blurry when I wrote, "look closely. listen closely. what we have here may well be the single truest folk rock n' roll performance ever captured on video tape," but I did wish true love would cast out all evil.

Hanging on the in silver, magnet, murk, and grain.

A post about a poster posting. At the end, they discover they are...

A. a bot
B. a Stepstool & Necktie advertisement
C. not a writer
D. all of the above

Night Moves, by the wildly creative Stephanie Barber, repurposes comments from a Youtube page for Bob Seger's song "Night Moves," and I read the book fascinated. Of course there is basic survival truth to the Internet commonplace "don't ever read the comments" — I closed the comment option at Creekbed's beginning some fifteen years ago because I knew you weirdos, saboteurs, and bots. However, Barber's deeply strange text allows quieted consideration of the ubiquitous but practically invisible internet thicket: nostalgia, sentimentality, earnestness, pettiness, idiocy, privilege, illiteracies, and mental illness.

Night Moves is available here from the good folks at Publishing Genius who have many, many great books. And finally and forever, for all this goddamned and glorious media, you can't beat the book for active reflection.  

Several years back I scratched a little riff on Seger/Night Moves.

in the morning we were
under water—
cool, puffy, floating

". . . a curriculum that isn't designed to liberate you but to occupy you . . ."

—Mike Rose, Lives on the Boundary

"...for Commerce without Slavery is unthinkable, whilst Slavery must ever include, as an essential Term, the Gallows,— Slavery without the Gallows being as hollow and Waste a Proceeding, as a Crusade without the Cross."

—Mason & Dixon

Remember that day the MYS Unreflective got sunk and we lost every last grinning maven in the Chillax Bros 12th Detach? Well, thanks—I was one. This is a ghost story. This is a war story.

What a bunch of shitty shitty shitty fucking assholes. It is difficult to figure out where one ends and the others begin, but these seemingly sudden advances in what are foundational wars on women, black and brown people, the poor, and nature itself are all deeply interconnected with the long, silent, successfully prosecuted war on education, which is the war on democratic agency. What a corporation of shitty shitty shitty fucking assholes.

We need to let these allied oligarchs and theocrats know we are not their empty vessels, their carriers, their help, their workforce, their consumers, their customers, their audience, their sub-humans.

Of course many folks are long in this fight out of fire, spirit, and mortal necessity, and the rest of us should follow by example because we—myself included—passively and silently, if not actively and shit-grinningly, reproduce the power the structures.

I read a new novel that I can not stop thinking about: The City of Folding Faces, written by Jayinee Basu, published by Lanternfish Press, is a wondrous, strange, and necessarily disturbing exploration of areas like consciousness, technology, advertising, communication, drugs, yearning, and love. Speculative and immediate, intellectual and achingly visceral, herein core human questions thrum. Mirroring the narrative's content and form I felt often like I was beyond my body, sensing vividly the constructedness and limitations of the phenomena we call self, what marketers and other power brokers covet as tastes and hopes and desires and fears. Basu's lyrical text both haunts and enthralls. This one is for poetic fiction travelers.

You may consider and order Jayinee Basu's The City of Folding Faces from the good folks at Lanternfish Press here.

You want to hold this one. What a wonderful book design:

please do not
tell me how
this thing ends

The calm, the coolness, the silent grass-growing mood in which one ought always to compose,—that, we fear, can seldom be ours. Dollars damn us...

—Melville [pronouns changed to get at something big]

"It may be they call her raggedy because power loathes the poor. And where loathing lives exploitation follows easily. Who cannot see the pain etched beneath her eyes? Only monsters. But even more we see in her a wisdom: hard, angular, idiosyncratic, and deeply funny. Not only knowledgeable and prepared but capable, spherical. It is these qualities power fears. Raggedy? Can you imagine? I prefer radical—Radical Ann. Although of course there's nothing radical about equity, human dignity."

—the baby, unable to sleep

One of my short stories was a finalist for Ruminate Magazine's 2019 William Van Dyke Short Story Prize. Many tantalizing near landings these late years. Here's to the ground. You.

" . . . funny, terrible, terrible, and boring."

Reading to see
what I have
missed. A lot
of people are
trying but
for the elect
oral college.

Glow in the glow,
doubt in the day.

I thought the mountain
bigger than it was,
but I saw a cloud.

Somebody said they were all worried about education in the United States, had this frigging detailed laundry list and everything, but I reminded her that almost 65 schools made it in the March Madness this year and that's something we should be pretty stoked about. Chillax, bros! Dishonor before death!

night, dawn—
houses with lights on

"They all talked at once, their voices insistent and contradictory and impatient, making of unreality a possibility, then a probability, then an incontrovertible fact, as people will when their desires become words."

— The Sound and the Fury


This was one of the epigraphs to my new novel but it's an epigraph to every worthwhile novel.

Please see my DEADx Talk at the Big Drown Water Park, Summer 2020.

Just going to leave this here

"Write a little every day, vacillating wildly between between hope and despair."

— Justin D. Stone

Neorealist X-Men reinvention — Professor X is an adjunct professor? Adjunct Professor X? Substitute Teacher X? Next-Gen Scoring Software X? Nobody has any power? The School for Gifted Youngsters has been subsumed by a multinational corporation, transformed into a test-taking factory for lower-order thinking skills, preparation for a life of minimum wage jobs and addiction to numbing, labyrinthine entertainments and ingestables—fleeting delusions of power? Meanwhile, students, parents, and teachers—all mired in poverty—are scapegoated for society's escalating problems, and increasingly disciplined and punished?

Does anyone know where we can get these Bright Starts Automatic Bouncer tracks on vinyl? Where we can hear the dust and feel the light? We already miss these sweet, melancholy, sun-limned days. Being and dreaming. Like a narrative universe in Miranda July’s mind. Me and you and everyone we do not know. Our old beds and worn rockers. Our bright woodsheds and unread stories. The unwritten. Play me the one that says I love you. I love you.

Friday for an American Asshole

1. Refuse back pay for low wage contract workers
2. Declare racist "national emergency"
3. Jet to personal resort, golfing
4. Watch Fox News
5. Tweet
6. Masturbate with the Devil

The Entertainment, The Man (or, Every-
time I Turn Around I Found I'm Shot)

Source: 
Kerr, Walter. The Silent Clowns. New York: Da Capo, 1980.

U.S. corporation: "Hey, thank you, thank you so much for all this work you're doing! We really appreciate it! We could not be here without you! We won't forget your contribution! And you will be rewarded! Very soon! We promise! We will do everything we can for you!"

Rest of your life: Vertiginous midnight silence, frustration, fear, pain, falling, reaching, falling, reaching, death of everything you hold dear, death.

Shel Silverstein (1974) way out past the curve

Where the Sidewalk Ends

Today in shit memes:

1) "Illegal" isn't a noun, racist. No human being is illegal.
1-A) Real life human beings are killed and otherwise terribly violated over this rhetoric.
1-B) All of this land is stolen, desecrated.
2) The right wing oligarchy is doing nothing for "homeless veterans" or "citizens".
2-A) I realize this is like shooting fish in a barrel (a cliché dumb and meaningless as anything in these memes, or graphic texts, the vapid recycled language which has also become our public discourse), but the recurring "homeless veterans" trope in these right wing memes is ridiculous. One, there is no scarcity of resources. The constructed competition between "us" and "them" is bullshit; we are all oppressed by global capitalism. Two, one of the right wing oligarchy's greatest successes is, in fact, the continual creation of more and more people who are homeless, refugees, and/or veterans, if not dead.
3) According to my friends who are friends with him, Sam Elliott is not a dumb asshole.
4) "Cupcake"? Really? How repressed are you? How gross?
5) Reading "I don't think so cupcake" with its missing comma makes perfect declamation.
6) A woman's life and body is hers, King Crapcake.
7) Please read a text, any text, without graphics and more than 20 inane words.
8) "morals"

I guess I should start out by telling you I'm four months old. I'm coming to appreciate the practice of critical re-reading. Just like writing's in the re-vision and learning's in the listen, reading's in the careful re-read. A thing can be both overvalued and undervalued, if you know what I mean. Both too read and misread. Take for example the whole goddamn world. Most of the guys I know are a first draft, half glance, clumsy-tongued gang of liars.

My old man's not really the worst guy in the world. He's just a little wet in the shoes, you could say. A bit battered about the ears.

Every time I think I figured anything out I haven't. I guess the thing is I wish for others even more than myself. That we can sleep and dream and be in the world all at the same time.

"She just put her arms around me and said, 'It's okay, you're okay. Sorrow is nothing but worn-out joy.'"

— Old Joy

Hollywood — A side-eyed pack of chortling rich boys who can't read, write, or empathize their way out of their designer shirts come to position as the arbiters and gatekeepers of story.

(The many times I went back to) Rockville

In 1988, during a 4-issue Batman run called "A Death in the Family," readers were allowed to vote, via two 900 phone numbers, whether Robin lives or dies.

By a weirdly narrow margin, readers voted Robin die.

That these votes were easily, obviously rigged is small part of a larger, more invisible reality. After a cataclysmic century that also saw some hopeful gains for an American social compact—the New Deal; Civi Rights; the proliferation of long-oppressed voices across many disciplines; the bloom of critical theory, critical education—a New Right, under the moniker of Reaganism, was ascendant.

We vote others die.

[Preview of "Deaths in Other Families" — forthcoming from Justin D. Stone.]

Depart-ment of Nude Jo
kes


Knock, Knock.

Who's there?

A petulant, racist, oligarch garbage bag of skin stuffed with poisonous blood, bile, guts, and shit.

Hello, Donald.

Hello, Donald.

Hello, Donald.

Great. I'm very glad to see we're all here.

I don't believe Trump truly wanted to be president. He really just desired to continue wielding the chicanery of capitalism—whereby the wealth of conscience-less greed-heads simply and without any effort begets more wealth and everyone else is exploited—to build Trump Towers in the autocratic capitals of the globe (Moscow, Riyadh, Beijing), installing his fetishized autocrats (Putin, Mohammed bin Salman, Duterte) in the $50 million penthouse of each dark tower. The big problem is that he and his family—once a combination of surprising-but-not-really-surprising factors such as the illiterate consumerism, sheer desperation, exploitable prejudices, self-interested greed, and apathy of U.S. citizens allowed his ridiculous stunt to proceed—figured that being president could just be the same thing. And maybe right now that is true. We need to re-vision our reason and purpose, our empathy and potential.

I get asked all the time so here's a secret: key to this blog's longevity is that it's written for kids, adults, and dolphins.

Hee Haw skit

Cornpone: My daughter blew an egg out her nose.
Rubbery Farmer: Holy moly. Did it hurt?
Cornpone: I don't know — she's a girl!

the false flag
is in your heart

De-partment of Nude Jokes

What does the devil say when he investigates himself?

My economy is booming

when has rule
of law not been
the sound of o
ppression

no checks, no balance,
three illegitimate
branches of government

2018 and I
don't know anything

If only we could extend this surging conservative interest in the presumption of innocence, sympathy for young people, and forgiveness for actions that happened "a long time ago" to millions of murdered and unjustly imprisoned African Americans.

The work is so silent even the shortest handwritten note on a formal rejection from a favorite literary magazine—Zoetrope: All-Story—feels like a human connection:

nice work

My kid. I told her she's the only good gig that ever called back and she said, "I know. We're in a lot of trouble. But what the shit."

My daughter's cat. I know, I know.
When you're three weeks old
you get whatever you want.

My 8-day old daughter was sleep talking and she said, ". . . things never worked out for my old man . . ." She's brilliant.

Pynchon, in Gravity's Rainbow, offers some excellent mottos for the new/old imperial Space Force. To name a few:

"All the animals, the plants, the minerals, even other kinds of men, are being broken and reassembled every day, to preserve an elite few, who are the loudest to theorize on freedom, but the least free of all."

"Don't forget the real business of war is buying and selling."

"Shit, money, and the Word, the three American truths, powering the American mobility..."

"My mother is the war."

"The Toiletship"

I appear in the music video for Tim Rutili and Craig Ross's song "Greasing Up the Third Eye." Ghettoblaster Magazine debuts the video here. Longtime collaborators Zach Passero directs and Lucky McKee gives chase. Moreover, I've been seeking refuge in Tim's music (Califone, Red Red Meat, much more) for many years. So this one is goddang special to me. Tim and Craig's new album 10 Seconds to Collapse is available now from Jealous Butcher Records. If you don't know Tim's music, seek out.

A lesson should be that oligarchs—American, Russian, or otherwise—do whatever they want, whenever they want, wherever they want, and to whomever they want. And that's just capitalism, especially the extreme unregulated capitalism we've been convinced is the only possible way to organize society, like god's direct law. Well, it's a shit social organization and only a shit god would endorse it. For instance, global oligarchic partnerships for oil profits—dirty, corrupt, murderous, and legal—trump all other human relationships, values, goals, hopes, dreams.

On the one hand I am desperate for time to slow, for mortality to please extend its illusory promise. On the other hand, however, I'm anxious for time to grind into dust the silent gen-er, baby boomer, or gen x-er who itches to utter another nonreflexive, thunderously illiterate millennial slur. Essentially, such provocations are the rightwing man-boy's contemporary manifestations of longed-for playground assaults like smear-the-queer or tag-the-fag. If we are exceptional at anything it is our capacity to miss (either consciously or nonconsciously) the forest while smashing sticks and smashing sticks and smashing sticks and smashing

A racist, misogynist, homophobic lot of dads, uncles, and boyfriends—direct beneficiaries of the last time the U.S. had high corporate taxes, a commitment to public services and programs, and something of a social safety net (a.k.a. forms of democratic socialism)—have united in brutishly loathing the most open minded and most fucked generation of young citizens. Here's to our critical democratic agents of transformation!

On October 23, just weeks before the election, Simon & Schuster is proud to release a bold new collection of essays from tireless U.S. truth-teller Tucker Carlson: Why Must These Ni--ers Make Everything About Race? and Other Uncomfortable Questions.

What people are saying:

"I could have said the exact same thing myself."
— Ted Nugent

"This'll blow a piece of hot lead through the baby's pussy skull."
— Ted Nugent

"Finally! For me these are perfectly comfortable questions."
— someone on Internet

No way does the racist demagogue deserve civility or respect. This is a man who made his name among the right wing base stoking racist fears about the most obstructed, most openly reviled sitting president in history. His incessant, patently gleeful language of hate and fear — infestation, invasion, rapists, murderers, the worst of the worst — plays into a long history of U.S. racism and xenophobia but represents a terrible, purposeful escalation. There are no two sides to this.

On October 23, just weeks before the election, Simon & Schuster is proud to release a bold new memoir from the last true American torch-bearer Sean Hannity — Oligarch's Hairline: Old Country Troubles Meet Old Country Answers.

What people are saying:

"The old boy does it again. Makes you really have to see the hard light of day. People have know idea who this man is and what he is capable of. And we're stronger for it."
— James Woods

"Dense, Proud, Patriotic. I thank God every Day that I live within this man's Land. With a man's quick cunning. A man's swift Touch."
— James Woods

"Finally! Real fucking good. Feels like blood just pounding in my hands."
— somebody on Internet

selling this Now -- two
fifty M's --- ten
thou, first buyer
call me-
Please

$$10,000

all space force, no life force

often i put on rafa
pistola and let play

Do not let monsters make false equivalency: critical reflection about and critical action against white supremacy, racism, patriarchy, and class oppression are not the same as white supremacy, racism, patriarchy, and class oppression.

Centuries of normalized murder are not the same as the radical, hopeful fight for a more equitable, more loving human future.

Stewart Lupton beat me up. Stewart Lupton slept on my floor. Stewart Lupton stole into my stories, penned pointed rejection slips. I stalked Stewart Lupton. Stewart Lupton was the pungent rock poet of our late western endtime.

I will hire the assassin just to
kill the time. One of these days
I will make this room mine.

It is a shit world.
But also, sometimes,
in the right light,
it is a shit world.

Dept. of Nude Jokes

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Your adjunct employee.
Our what?
Justin?
Who?

From A Nation At 
Risk (1983)

We constructed a no
nonsense solution,
historically necessary,
great for profits, stake
holders, market dom
ination and
if you think about it,
straight out of our
God's mouth: UBM,
Universal Basic
Murder.

Who needs to trans
form history when
it works fucking per
fectly? Everything
else is just political,
dumb blubbering sounds,
red-faced reaching
babies

Nothing saves him who's never loved.
No world is safe in that one's keeping.

—Li-Young Lee, "The Undressing"
(wonderful book here)

Galoot's Pitch?

What about those jobs
where you do something
bad and make some money?
I only find the ones
you do something bad
and make nothing?
I heard something like I
could kill me and we
would do a lot better?

Kevin Ford's By The River: Further Downstream is a "supplemental extension of the non-fiction film" that "artfully weaves together a wide variety of extended scenes." You may find some of me in these searching documentations and you may also find some of my poetry read into new lives by Ellar Coltrane. Much love to Ford, Coltrane, and Adrien Brody for opening windows and wormholes.

I hope you are well. I know it's difficult. But it ought not be. Things need not be as they are. You deserve to be happy. We are not in a race, we are not in a market, we are not in a fight. We are human beings and much has conspired to limit our being. Let us value and invest one another, our shared existence, our planet. Rather than endless impossible nightmare tasking let us help each other live for experience and wonder.

I realy had to get something off my CHEST!!!!!!!
So Scuse Me WHILE I kiss the SK!!!!!!
SHARE IF YOU AGREE!!!!!

not really mystery



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