Ugh. I feel I have lost my talent for observation. Feel that I am being drawn deep into the mind boggling vortex that is Soybean Island in winter. That is my mind in winter.
It is true that this is my, well, preferred, season here in captivity. Only because it best represents the reprehensible of this town and island and community. This forced existence. But even I am suspect and susceptible to the inherent decrepit foibles of a long cold miserable winter in this non-idyllic dung hole.
Yes. Even I lose my sense of humor and otherness and I become but one more rutabaga-eating fool within the confines of white snow upon the conscious connected whiteout of the individual.
This is an impossible land. I am an impossible impostor in the impossible land. An Object of Abject Curiosity . . .
I am but a dormant tree, leafless and holding only dead air and powdered snow:
And it sickens me . . .
Sorry to report--Oneninefiveseven over and out
and
. . .
Goodbye from Soybean Island
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