'I could be a -- ' and, 'I could be -- ' goes the song. 'What a waste/...But I don't mind'.

I do.

Motivation out of empty-ways is a strong one. Currently frustrated and know why. Got lazy and inept, been dossing about. Where's some 'here is a man who would not take it anymore' kind of jibber?

Write or graph anything, is a something, for me to get going on. To avoid, and becoming. Sacrifice, turning into completion. Thought captives, freedom's cry. Note the two sides of the equation. The this for that.

Thankfully God's on it. Looking to getting me there. An' y'bet there's a there, that gets to, a THAT.

Seems too far and troubling an effort. Which is what screws my head up. That all I have to do? For WHAT, yet, on nursery rhymes and 'softening things'. Pissin' about. Best type it, not pretend time.

WRITE MYSELF UP and wretched self-assessment. Know I should take my eyes off me. This me-me-me-me-me-me --OR--

Grace + choose and to keep oneself unspotted from the world. Unto the other ONE. Outta here and muddling along, keep me there and on to, that.

Refusing not to write becomes a public mirror. Expressing even less, what I think anyone might like to read, do pure unadulterated, messages back. Read and wince it's all revolving doors and roundabout. Rabbiting nowhere.

All am saying is; There's a journey and a destination. The fitness required is flagging. Got to pull up to the... baby. Got to.

Unspotted dependent. The, that. Hearing in outputting that speaks of God. That... I hear, his voice. Not looking for audibly or vivid visions. More the Word alive. And gifts.

It's late, should have not tapped till morn.

BUT... there's a that, and a this.

My loss is connected to how early arise, keep food out the day and enough exercise.

Physical, physical, physical.

Unspot.