DEAR MRS RACCOON

months have gone by.
or a month.
but months of a dramatic decrease in computer use
causing a dramatic increase in book use
causing a dramatic decrease in sleep use
causing a dramatic increase in bass use.
so its all for the best.
but in having something to say ive got it but id rather show it if i could you know.
or "a story of milk" is a cute little book i came across.
taking the children on a real life photographic tour of the wonderfulness of the dairy farm and the "from the cow to your mouth" process through the eyes of 1935.
it is amusing to see the same ol same ol of the milk process with the cows forever locked in their motionless nothingness but with an elegance of writing that brings to mind a pastoral romanticism.
like auschwitz: a happy time by marjory taylor hardwick.
it is a seemingly unfrontoo blunder to confuse a battle axe with a baseball bat.
but in the end, when all the rain has fallen, all that matters is the blasphemy soaking ones walls.
with that said, a continuation can be made.
because the winter months are a comin in the cold cold breezes.
and after every sullen moment there is a small rise in feeling the pits of some helpless wily guile.
what is meant by that is the air being breathed is being burned alive in a selfless sacrifice.
selfless in that it only thinks of those that it envelopes.
sacrifice in that it only lets those that it envelopes cloud its purity with a vile humorlessness.
a headstrong murder (the following program) is made possible because of a headweak suicide (viewers like you).

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