rather than bore myself with assorted vagueness(es) i'll bore myself with grimy detail:

i am opening a cheese sandwich on white bread wrapped in green cellophane.

the black digital work phone is unplugged. all browser windows are shut save this one. i have goosebumps. my mascara is all fucked up. i feel i have something in common with dionne warwick, which is always quite dangerous.

as i and many others are thrust into this artificial new year, please reflect on the following:

inferior and interior share all but one character.

for whatever reasons, i appear to be holding my breath.