Tuesday, January 31, 2012

I Rather Blog About You, Then Talk To You


There is a landscape of beautiful buildings all housed with the things i havent but shouldve, might still but probably wont tell you. They rest on the best paper and are written in the most fantastic ink. I keep them there because like a skyline, they are best kept far away. Unlike you. You are both near and far, far and near at the exact same times but then we're always breaking buildings. We use my words as knives and shelter, all at the same time. Sushi? Yuk. Ive decided to be silent, stay away from the pretty building. Its full of everything ive pretended to say to you. You've been warned.

Kind Regards,

Monday, January 30, 2012

Bye Bye, Pretty Psychedelic

the wrenching suffocation of everything that is bombarding the workings and writings of everything before; then and now. the smog is clearing our problems, what we cannot see isn't really there .. the ups and the downs. pulling you under. hands, you cannot place, pulling you down. the exact moment of highlighted beauty, shock waving your senses into a otherworld, similar to immortality and you start to do things you never would because your fear of death has dissolved like an ecstasy tablet on your tongue. bye bye pretty. paying for the antidote, but there is nothing you wont, and the smoke is a beautiful cotton candy heavy settling on your clothes, wear it around town like you own the place. sincerely, your belongs, which you own none of. nothing is yours and everything is yours and by the time you decide to put up a fight for something breakfast will be cleared and no midnight snack for you. educated idiot, filled to the brim with shut eyes, shut lenses, shut smiles. the hallucinations begin to fall on the openness of your eyes and now what. no reality, you discarded the present. drowning in a self made bubble of intoxicating hatred, psychedelic.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Can I Get an Operator

the turnstile are detecting my whereabouts. quiet now, i am trying to get out. the subway car seems to be doing it's rounds and taking me back to where i came from. why. wont. it. let. me. go. the lights have al clung to red, stopping me from crossing the street, i turn to go the other way and as fast as i can blink, they have shot to red too. the red is killing me. it doesn't match my shoes. why wont they let me go. the internet is down, just for me, no tickets to bookings no hospitality. the cars are all out of gar and my license wont last, my shoes have no soles so what am i to do with mine, they wont let me go. the train tracks have all disconnected and propellers have gone a missing and there is no way out for me to go, no where out for me to go. no way out. no way out. the gate is closed. waiting for the operator. where is the operator. hello, operator? can i get an operator. i need to find a way out. can i get an operator, tell me how do i do it, how do i just get out.

Release. Undertow. Inhale.

the release.
the ticking time bomb, stopping with a few seconds to spare.
the inhale of the heaviness.
the exhale of the heaviness.
the conditions of everything.
the undertow of the ocean.
the bottom of the tea cup.
the bottom of the ocean.
the depths of all the pockets.
the length of soul.

the measurements of lipstick on the rim of the bottle.
the height of the heels.
the shortness of the skirt.
the buttons unbuttoned on the shirt.
the looseness of the tie.
the closeness of the tie.
the depth.
the height.
the conditions.
the undertow.
the inhale.
the exhale.
the stopping.
the buttons.
the closeness.
the measurements.
the pockets.
the release.

Saturday, January 28, 2012

The Ink is Hot

letters that aren't existing because the pen has not kissed the paper yet and when it did hands strangled them to death and sent them flying to the trash can. the letters in the alphabet cannot help define the emotion in the pen and the ink is hot, bubbling at the spark of some other world, that has a disconnect to my heart and the rewiring of the paper to the pen is causing hardships on the mind and the mind becomes heavy, like boots, with rocks, heavy rock boots. look in the refrigerator and define this moment by it's contents, tell me something about the vodka in your ice box, it reminds the soul of the heart, a drunk frenzy of frozen vodka, on the rocks, not the same rocks from the boots. taking those boots and taking the trash out and letting the words of the ink on the paper be blended into the baby shit of the diapers on your neighbour has just tossed in there and everything you've written and spoken and thought goes away to the landfill of broken shit and what you've always done is shit. talking shit. thinking shit. the compost of recycled images dosed in the frozen vodka, on the rocks, that is a passage into the dark of your corrupted, flatlining soul. the words of pages, all blank, meaning everything and nothing, coexisting in the exact same places, and there is no missing link, you have yet to connect the dots.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Medium Rare

An undetermined amount of rareness has come into the heart. The heart of medium rare. An bad attempt of adaptation from reality to screen. The viewers of another world, looking at us. Us, like this, might be choking. But then again, they don’t feel the feeling of the heart sharply beating against the chest, so they might just be engorged in a massive amount of junk food, feeling some other unhealthy kick in their chests, and not the fluttering of thoughts that have slowly shuffled from the head to the chest, but we can feel it. Oh, we feel it. In another place, the creatures are trying to find us in other creatures. Just like we are trying to find ourselves in one another. Creatures. Looking at us. Us. Looking at one another. We all just want the rapids of our hearts to swell and crush, devour each other, but we are so safe. Safely hazardous beings in a hazardous world. And we don’t even mind, we don’t even mind.


Stop my unpostable heart from beating because I can no longer look at the paper trail, the electronic foot note that has accompanied my emotions thus far. Please shut it down, the incurable stammering of something within my soul that is sometimes described and validated with words, erase them, do not copy paste and save them, erase them. Backspace up on them. no proof, but there is proof, from the vocal cords that said them, linked to the brain that thought them and the heart that created them and felt them first. Cyber world has my heart on lock, an open cave to explore and rip apart. Stop the beating of my unpostable heart, save this as a draft because your not quite sure if I mean it this time, but I do. The heart cant take the constant upload, sync, rewind, photo shopped madness that continues to pay within the tentacles of it’s beat, the interlocking molecules, linking me. Women or robot. Women robot. I cannot understand, reboot. Forget this place, forget the time. do not save, waste of time.
Stop the beating of my unpostable, paperless heart.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Mermaid, Me

Mermaid, me.. I think you might. You might just believe, believe in me? Mermaid, me. The heighten depths of the seas, the height of them crashing on your body and you might just take the plunge. The sink or swim variation. The variation of the action. Take action. Mermaid, me? Wild card, this is not some Gold Fish game, but will you risk it? Put it all in, Mermaid, me? The temptation of some other world, some other presence that we dose in colourful ink to make ourselves blend, the blending of ideas and merging of bodies, and suddenly you’re believing in the people who have let you down. Mermaid, me.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Anger is Common With One Another

We're set up like a family and we don't listen to the parents. Eating and laughing and oh were sleeping. Sleeping through each others lives with one another, no sexual contact, no incest. Just sleep. And we're cohesively a wreck. A helpless wreck of salaries, education, feelings, thoughts, an emotions. We want. We get angry. With one another. Anger is common with one another. We miss. Miss out on each other and miss one another. We bond through pizza and trivia. We want. We like. The company of each other is like a well played song. We drink. Drink and be merry. Never making merry. We don't make merry. We swear to drunk were not god. We go. Go go go. On adventures. We punch numbers. Spend numbers. Drive numbers. We are a televised unit. To some other planet. Watching us. We are their sitcom. We are a family, we eat pizza. No incest. We are a unit. A televised unit, each playing our role. Our role. A unit. A family unit. We are. That's just the way we are. Together. All of us. Together. Again.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Departing Sounds

the departing sounds, never happening quite as quickly as you want them to. departing. to depart. is it time to go yet? anticipation on the time. time to leave, but time keeps coming. creeping up, like those on electronic profiles and secrets, time. what a creep. departing words of wisdoms, things that should be said, polite things, made up things, things meant to be said at the departing time of departing. to go or to stay, to go now or to stay a little longer only to leave a little later. to depart. time. time to depart. the departing cause of eruption of other departing things, all deciding to waiver on the departing deportation of the time. the right time to go, the wrong to go. everything ultimately falling on the closed doors, foot prints, empty cups left behind..  cups filled with depart. doors closing, closing in on goodbyes. cars leaving, veering into other ways of leaving into other places to go and then to decide to leave those very places behind. to go or to stay, not the real question of the sort, but when to leave and for how long to stay before departing, in any given situation; the relationship, the argument, the birth and death, the party and the night. to stay in the night till the night leaves and the sun comes only preparing to leave too. or leaving before the night has the satisfaction of leaving you and waking into the midday, only to leave morning in the dust of the past. to leave. yes. yes to leaving, but when, when to depart.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Shruggin', Smilin', Laughin'

i'm starting to wonder about how many things i have smiled over, shrugged at, or laughed away because i simply couldnt hear exactly what was being said, so i fluffed my way about it so they would assume i knew what was going on. im laughing now, because i do indeed, have no clue whats going on. funny? and i smile at that, beacause i am still lost in a daze. but i'll shrug this off, this feeling. i dont know what it is, because i didnt hear you. im shruggin and laughing and smiling, right at you.

Bubble Bath Epiphany

choosing to plunge my head into the sea, because i can no longer see the things i once saw. touching your hair, as if it could be the one, the one strand that is going to save me. the carousel of swelling sounds, found on the tips of my ears, whisper good things to me, make me understand. sharping the knife because i am prepared to fight, uniting my boots because i want to take flight. stirring the pot, because i don't care what boils. throwing in the towel because the worthiness is over. rising like a pizza, and sinking in the tub, bubble bath epiphany sent from straight above. unlimited amounts of tea, by the cup fulls. skyscrapers scraping the colours out of my pupils because i don't want to see the lavender goodness of your morality, i don't want to see the red of your lips urging me to go, go in for a kiss. i don't want to see the blue sky over your brown hair, or the way your eyes create little sparks of static, when you stare. choosing to cut off my oxygen, i want to breath something else, fill me up with wonder because i am good without, the actualities of this place, caving in on my day.

The Legs On Time

mind to the bullet and i am all out of triggers. mind on fire, but there are no bells ringing. time running out, where did time get these damn legs from. mind with a compulsion to really blow it. dancing on glass because we like the way it sparkles. cracking at the seems because we don't have anywhere to be, and time can march her lovely legs right on over to me. your so sexy when you make me work, work work for the time. the time is all work and i ain't got a dime. the time swelling like a capsule, and all i want to do is pop it. straight to my blood stream, inject it. wicked pair of a legs and you asking me for the time? so distort, out of my mind. you're so hot hot, you might be a dime, but look again, you're just wicked time.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Recovering -holic

The difference between us is there is no us. 
You are you, a separate entity of everything I am. 
Everything I will become, has nothing to do with you. 
I may have made decisions based on experiences that 
Dealt with you and your insignificant charm, but the dog days are over. 
A recovering -holic of some mystery product. 
No more relapsing, easy trend waters. 
The different beween you and I. 
Well, that is a different in general. 
You are you. 
I am I. 
Your Lisa Frank IQ, won't colour my world.
And all the colour in my world isnt water based, so go ahead and cry.
Not messing with my fung shway. 
You are such a meatball. 
The similarity is the relative care. 
The care that is so misleading. 
The miss, I am no longer, because I am not leading. 
The miss you try to become, but cannot succeed without lady parts. 
Therefore, no one is missing out on the leading. 
The leading is done.

Pasta Letter

Dear Love,
        I call you Love, but I am no where close to loving you. I hate the way you wash your hair in the kitchen sink, over top of last night's dinner plates. You are beautiful when you sleep but when you awake, you are like a caged dragon, ferocious and lonely. I wish I could take away your pain. I see the way you put your lightening blue eye shadow on, as if to cover up everything in your brain, I can see it. I can see you, in the morning light, pulling on your stockings. I want to help you. I am so very hungry now, I've made a plate of pasta. Would you come home and join me, eat this pasta with me, I have made a plate or two for me and you. The wine is at room temperature just the way you like it. Love, you've done it again haven't you, washed your hair in the kitchen sink, over our dinner plates. This pasta taste just like you.
        Ever Warm, Yours.

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Does The Radio Know Me At All

The songs on the radio predicting my moves. Yes I'm sprung and I'm going to fill my cup and two step tonight. The radio continuing to see me a little clearer, all the other boys trying to chase me but ill give you my number. The radio throwing me a curve ball and now I'm raising my weapon to the ghost and stuff and its true I miss you, I miss you. The radio acting like my friend, playing off my broken heart and messed up head. The radio slamming on the breaks and getting me a little freaky and now all I want to do is jump the bones of the next tatted plastic cup holding boy with a snap back and I can't relax because the radio has got me on a feminists kick while I'm looking for dick. Feeling a little jaded and a little built up, looking like a buttercup in a monster mashed up way and the perspective of the radio has got my in high heels and bras and ripped jeans and combat boots. The radio has been shut off and I can't tell if I want a bad ass boy or a hot ass nerd, can't tell if I wanna get high or join the army and I can't decide if the radio knows me at all. 

Hanging Passion on the Walls

The creative persuasion for this haven, got me building walls, walls worth saving and on these walls I'm hanging my passion, a passion that isn't worth the masking and your not worth the time if your looking for a cover up, searching for loop holes in the work because you think ill give it up but I am no virgin and that cherry has already been popped so this right here is all real no strut. Straight shooting energy, this art is saving me and the creativity is impeccably, timely. The crisscrossed fire of bungee jumping ideas nose diving into drugs and stuff because we need something to blame and not just reality even though this reality is a real trip. A trip, have you tripped? You're tripping again aren't you? The life time supply of sex drive in the end zone and somebody call the shots, somebody make the play.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Likeness of Our Differences

we are 
nothing the same.
not even in the same range.
we are individuals.
different cloth.
different procedure.
we are individuals.
feeling the exact same thing.
feeling nothing alike.
fighting for nothing and everything.
we are individuals, can you tell.
we are. we are. we are. 
exactly alike, but we will not fight, nor recognize the likeness of our differences. 

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

And, Sorts

and right now is really happening, 
for all the people. and right now is really stretching a little bit further. and right now is all differentiated by the technicalities of everything indifferent. they say, you say. i said,  this was already said. and right now it is very bright,  very clear, so very dark.
edges, smoothed and we cannot see the crease. where to begin, where to sleep?
and right now the music is just playing.
and right now that cars have all stopped.
and right now we don't dare blink, but we're daring each other to blink.
blink. blink. blink.
like gun shots, but we're in peace.
and right now nothing is what it seems.
and right then everything was exactly as it seemed.
and right after, push push push, question pushing.
and right now, are you sleepy?
and right now.
and right never.
and never never right.
the streetlights are zooming by.
we want to stop and touch them.
capture their lights with flashes of other lights.
smiling like we've got all the might.
might this.
and right now, might that.
and right now everything is exactly as it seems. 
exactly as it seems.
no illusions.
everything is right.
and right now, everything is exactly as it seems.
disastrous things.
and right now, everything is exact.
exactly, as it seems.
it seems to be exactly the way things are exactly going to be.
this is exactly it.
indifferent, differences and exactly the different sort of different.
sorted out.
everything sorted out.
distorted sorts.

Monday, January 9, 2012

Feasting On Your Company

Sun appears within the blink of an eye. Eye lashes are not strong enough to bat away the source. A burst of heated laughter, stretched across sleeping pupils and scorn for the empathy silent etching, "look at me" in a bubbly cursive all throughout your hair. A fragment of sunshine, catches your brain and send you on a trip to memory lane. A memory created only seconds ago. A short while of miss is relived with the weaving of sun through buildings and people. A heat seeking mission. You're eyes, it's time. Short circuited, gourmet meal at an early hour departure. Feasting on your company.

Sunday, January 8, 2012

Settling Into The Crooks

the frequent pull, like off a cigarette, leaving the exact same rush, but nicotine free. i am starting to believe someone like you might be good for me. the dietary need of shattered glass, put altogether, stain glass window complex. you are beautifully distorted. mumble in your sleep, something or other, i wont remember, but i will remember that mumble. sneak a peak, i always am. take the reigns, you're good at that. at seconds i don't expect your urgency, suddenly we become urgent. on the same page. adapting to the surroundings. settling in where we left off. like a dance move i  haven't practiced, music turned all the way up so all the little implications go unnoticed. half hazard frenzy of electric emotions, this could get us into some trouble, trouble for you and i would be good, something good for the soul. shake shake shake shake shake us up. get the timidness out of the system. not really caring about who sees, not really caring about anything but this. this right here. tonight. tomorrow. wherever we be. setting things and each other on fire. do you see the sun? i am blinded by this other system of light - not even looking for it's whereabouts because it doesn't mean much to me. no questions. no answers. just actions, just actions. take the pull of that cigarette and use it's efforts to undress me. not even a smoker, but i think i might need one. replacing the package with the a shirt, a look, two hands, and a sleeping bag. tainted fingers, like a nicotine residue, left behind time idling on the serpents tongue that keeps plunging in and out of our way. the snake might be crooked, or we are finally settling into the crooks.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Disable My Embrassement

And I can't help but stay focused on your polar bear eyes, then again it might just be all the cola. I'm inching closer and you don't seem to mind. Can't say that I apologize. Crumbling like pastries and the news flew through my mind like fire flies, the brightest thing since summertime. Warm though, just the same. Back to sand holes and underwater tackles but I can breath under the ending sinking feeling. The sound has slowed and the madness is purely of overjoy and not linked to a sell or trade of inappropriateness. But let's be. Let's just be inappropriate now. The ability pulled from the stone like that kids sword and who knew the desire he must've felt with the canvas of nothingness. New game. Restart. To be or not to be that is a question we no longer have to throw at one another. To just, just. Nothing. The clear coat on a different land and I do feel rather flung into a memory of things I said and shouted things I meant then and mean more now. Things I persisted with a heart I didn't think I had, but proved to myself that I do possess such a heart and filled inside are things I didn't expect to find. Not sure what held onto the particles that seemed so far fetch and not to sure where the connection to disable my embarrassment and substitute it with the kind of honesty I only pen and never speak. The type of affection I never show just vent but now I am a portrait of a caring person. Mirrored eyes and I see me. That sure is me. Strange in a different kind of way. No longer running back and forth like a road runner. You probably already know but I could show you or pen you a piece of paper imboding a letter of sorts. You already know, but in case you forget. I think the world of you.

Adolescent Tributes

A change in tide, no weather approaching.
And you thought it was nothing but bliss.
A change in affairs, and the order of eruption, soon losing it's flair.
The charging of anger, at the site of new things, and the old sparks just the same.
Releasing the toxins that muddy up minds, late into the morning.
Nothing good about the beginning of the day,
what is cloudy in the sun takes no warning in the shade.
Swimming into a a tidal wave, looking for the calm within the storm.
Looking at the differences, what is right is wrong and wrong is right.
What is the time, always seem to be misplacing it in vital moments.
Moments that are scattered on walls like posters, with peep holes, looking in.
What do you see, other then the colours of frustration…
Mini bullets to the substance that elapses on fervent rest..
Nothing can be put to rest.
No soap opera, but we are young.
Tired some adolescent tributes, to rock bands and games.
Everything thought to a catchy tune.
Always asking questions, but never the actual questions we questions.
Inquiries of the, I already know.
The knowing of everything and nothing at the exact same time.
This is not what it appears to be.
This is exactly what it doesn’t look like.
Looking like something entirely of a different shade.
Stuck in the shade,
Decisions made in darkness are rethought on sunny mornings.
Stay away from the sun.
Vampire complex.
Everything, including biting, going on - no blood drawn, but it sure feels like it.

Impregnating Classifications

Words, packaged between strums and hums. Heartbreak, made danceable. The apparent washed out sadness of everything but happiness and yet it makes you sway in a delicate manner. The sealed secrets of upbeat tempos linked to collectible moves and often charges the powerful drive of the sexuality. Minty aroma from the speakers of fun and firecracker drops felt throughout your hair. The out of style romance, in the stirring white noise of a song, the radio encouraging you to sing along. The sudden change in mood when inflicted with the razor blade smoothness of the harmonious voice. The impregnating classifications of the repeat. The silly girl giggles on the far left hook. Rock star pants and lots of sparkle, shouting words that should be sung, singing parts that haven't begun. Changing ideas in the middle of a solo. None of this stuff is meant to be alone. You find it in the moment when your looking for something to believe in. Belief knocked out by sound, you're totally feeling it.


Frozen places, it is time to get out of here. Go to other frozen places, it’s not the temperature that has got me leaving. Taking only a few things, paper and pens; usually leaving the camera behind, I’ll be back again… pack up shop, skedaddle. Turning over another page, not a rip in the paper, I decide to stay, paper gets wet – soggy and heavy, and I start gathering my things – running. Expected and unacceptable, I still book the tickets, rent the space. I don’t double take or waste the stakes. Frozen places, got me running to other frozen places. Perfect company, I urge to come with me. Perfect company, perfectly accompanied, at home and safe. Will you run away with me, frozen place to frozen place? Clock wont stop, we must proceed, people agree and never pack their things. It’s nice to leave. Get away, disappear, physically go – because you all know I’m never really here anyways. And while I’m gone out looking for me, from frozen place to frozen place, if I come back while I am gone, please tell me to wait. Upside down and twisted, never stashed away far from the surface, but scuba diving in other sources. Literature vacations and I am ready to go now, skip town, forget while I am gone, I’ll be back, I am never that far. From frozen place to frozen place. I am losing my way. I am found. I am losing my way. I am lost.

Mouth to Collarbone

There is a window seat on the possibilities. Breath the particles of the sad taste and struggle no more. We could make one hell of a catastrophe. Beautiful everything, on the brink of someone else's speech, I hope to know you wouldn't be torn. Not that I am already standing for the fall of the other life, but like night and day, best thinking and actions and decisions are done during the night. We cannot be quiet and we cannot resist the touch. Do not think I want you hurt. Would there be much pain, for you? I would take the hurt away, this is a little maddening and morality is playing a strange part in our lives right now. The ethics of what is going on counteracts with the swollen craving on the back of our hands which are conducting us to become peaceful. The peace is laughing at our abomination of it's methods and I cannot help but be the viking hippie after your body and heart, all at the same time. Making wishes, eating all my vegetables, I think this could save the time I want to stay there, with your slack mouth - sleeping face of the warmth that is evident, sleeping grip of a evidently heart spun being in a slowing action of simplicity. To be. Just be. The simpler things have become simpler. Your body plays a detailed game of twister on my body. Eyes to neck. Mouth to collarbone.

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

No Known No's

Sly grins, to crease the mouth that knows a helluva lot more then it's matching eyes lead you to believe. In corners on still dark mornings, slipping knowledge of what their mind house's and admits with relative admiration that all is well in encryptic words of affection. A lot more then kissing, a lot of clothes on. A fair bit of wishing. Heavy breathing, constant urge, seizing seconds. Known no's. No no's. All known so well, nothing conventional, definitely a pair. Mix matched socks with just the right amount of heat. Sharing antidotes and offering special quotes, late night wake up attention. The perfect kind of play. Up all night, like there's no where to be. "You're the still point, in a turning world." Highly comparable to nothing experienced before, a tug-o-war worth getting naked for. Playing for keeps, for keeps, because I'd hate to see you go.

Backspacing the Space Between Us

Deflate the substance that is billowing into the veins and seizes the brain from making choices. Chewing on the taffy of life. Late night "I don't knows" are left unanswered in make shift places that allow everything to soften. Finger prints, tracing our decadence and a string of other possibilities that have things happening. Revoke the suspense of our infliction and represent our mild convictions and with a little more steam this could all come clean. Warm spots detecting warm spots. Back burner pessimist filtering through scenes and words, the unsaid and the screamed. Simmering information on the classification that this is all made up. Making something up. Experiences. Made up. Backspacing the space between us. Closer punctuation, that much further from closure. Punctuate the absolute of our absoluteness. The battle of staying out of the battle is battling out our senses. Cutting out everything probable. Expecting nothing. Nothing expecting everything. Everything with no expectations, happening.

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Pillow Cases Stuffed With Slumber

losing touch with reality, falling in love with the quality.
i'm not sure i was ever really here.
catching moments in the flashing lights, trying hard not to fight.
do you notice that when we speak, we don't ever really hear.
catching all the undertones, of all the mixed match monotones.
i want to leave this place with you right now.
tell me something magical, so you and i can not grow old
but if we must, let's try and do it together.
paint my lips a violent red,
kiss you upon your forehead,
leave a mark so i can find you later.
losing touch with reality, falling in love with quality,
forget all that stuff about quantity, theres to much at stake.
pour me another, or four.
tell me everything you adore, our list you to be so
similar, now they are locked away and hidden,
you quiver.
at the notion.
that something more is happening.
your eyes say more then your lips.
your lips i want to kiss.
i am lost in passages of something more.
things ive written and things ive destroyed.
it's a half past ten and i am no where to be found,
lost in my head.
hearing everything but sound.
the muffled things you spoke into covers,
pillow cases stuff with everything but slumber.