Tulip Crazes and Lynch Mobs

I can't forget what you've forgotten, but I've never been so in love. My escape valve is all clogged up with metadata and I've got a semantic gap between my legs; could I get any more dirty? Ask him. Where time is a function of love, there is nothing I won't try, trying to make him happy. No, I don't know where I got the idea that the concept of happiness implies the concept of forgiveness but I know I need it because I bear the weight of the sins of my father on a cellular level. And so do you, my favorite little epigeneticist, but your secret kisses of confidence remind me that even though I dream defeatist, my negativist nightmares are all in my head. Literally. Its just the circumstantial evidence, the question marked calendar days, the fascination with short-cut corridors to counterfeit contentment -- they are the toxemia modern medicine can't leech out and I just need you to notice. It takes a long time just to get it all straight, handicapped by my inchoate methods of distinguishing the difference between that which is real and that which is ghost. Homespun desperation is knowing that on the inside your cover is always blown.