sometimes:

“Augh” just does not get it across.

Love is

a warm transformer.

I’m not though, I’m still complacent

His filthy ragged fingers traced the edges of the keyboard. Turning to you, he had said “A whole generation is being born who will never use keyboards”. Your face curled.
His myopic face dipped further in to the light-well of the screen.

“T4A has always in some way been the helm that I see out of. Not that I show ye any sort of persona, but perhaps more that we all race forward together through the same opaque layers of futures-come, glancing sidelong at one another, grinning
That’s how I see you, and I think we know things are going to get quite out of hand. Our parents, and their lovely parents before were bred from different stock; our age is a disaster caught, just in time, with a left hand. Are you thrilled? Terrified, thrilled, complacent, competent, informed.

-”

set the scheme / on his own team / like Starscream

Dream Fragment: Keep finding self in same bizarre situations- won’t go down massive slide, cars simultaneously jack knifing, but investigated in a cyber-noir narrative.

home-again, home-again / creeping revisionism

“Jiggity-jig” was something I used say when we arrived back from trips, riding transports hither-tither, shepherding children.

There was a huge satisfaction in finishing a trip. Things go well, you and your charges exchange well-wishes and glib assurances; there were no fatalities and you are no longer bound by a responsibility for others. Exiting the taxi, coming through our gates I would sling off my pack in a catapult arc, dumping it inside the door; don’t need it now. Kick shoes off: too restrictive. The rank shirt follows the bag and shoes once I’ve smelled it for assurance that I did work; like a promise of earning. Now I roll outside on the cold tiles, shouting and swearing. It’s all a ritual, bathing in relief. If I’m lucky, I get a beer for my troubles although more likely than not I must go buy my own.
The relief, the moment of homecoming is very brief as there are only so many things I can cast off; this newly liberated me still has to drink, wash, I am still constrained. But the sense of freedom is sweet for some damp sweaty minutes before you start bidding for the shower.

with solemn ceremony

The delf is pure white, glossed warm edges. The tannins push steam up in agitated columns, livid with heat energy. The table is dark and hard, the same color as the very heart of the cup. There are then only two colours; rich red brown, and the deep clear white of ceramics. The one spoon reflects all the colours around it: like an instrument of service it is unobtrusive. The jug is lifted, its contents like a glaze.
You must tilt the milk very slowly, best to lie the neck on the rim of the cup. You then do not so much pour, as push by increments, the milk down the side of the cup. It will happily go down, it’s fine, it’s fine.
It will blossom then, the little chaos. It doesn’t care about the scale at which it operates, tiny shuddering valleys. This is brief though, the pandemonium will settle out again, beneath the tannin ceiling. The ceiling will pulse with momentum, back forth back forth.
Take now the spoon. Milk is a type of liquid called a colloid; a stable dialogue on emulsion between polar and non-polar narrated by delicious biochemistry.
The denser milk will sit at the lowest points until you ask it to take up this extra water volume, ancillary tannins, these additives. There is no reason to hurry this; summon the milk with your aluminium spoon, instrument of function.

Physical laws which govern atmospheres, planets, star clusters erupt in a cup still steaming, the most colossal things write small and comprehendible for me, so that I may safely overlook them.