I'm overworked. Maybe I'm doing too much for too little.

Am I answerable to you? Perhaps not.

Orestes.

Gotta cut away, clear away, snip away and sever this umbilical residue, keeping me from killing you.
Wow.
Thank you, Karan.

Yes, the integer.

The sweat of my brow stings my eyes and failure looms large. As the hammer hits the metal, I am forced to reflect – what if I don’t get what I’m looking for? Or has it become so indefinable by the platitudes of fate that I sit beside it every evening and yet neglect its presence? Exhausted by the day’s work, I remove my greasy overalls and wash my hands in the rusty, iron basin I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. God. These laugh lines will soon wipe out any hints that I once had a mouth. I’m aging like a peanut in the sun, but I’m not complaining because I still find comfort in the presence of these lathes and toolboxes.

C'mon, A-Team.

Fuck the naysayers. Fuck criticism. Wash it away with eau-de-toilette.

This is not it. Start over. Start over.