The light of darkness.

Woe besides them a spook, and nobody could speak to it, its eyes dark and melted, what they wondered and confound it a bad creature with never a mother, an it, came forth on the forest with froth from its mouth carrying a musket!

This is how its done to it!

A monster of legend.

Sound and fury signifying something!

Icy taste and no flavor!

Special prize tioilet flusher!

On a wish list.

This one.

I am curiosity said the being.

Ghostly grin again!

Watch your step!

These songs are my prayer for the Ukrainians.

The problem I have with spirituality is it makes me want to vomit. I think real spirituality would eventually cause me to vomit.

My recent definition of four indicates that if time travel happened it would be to effect events at moments when that door suddenly opens for that to happen. That could last for only an hour, then the door would slam shut!

Success might mean something very different in the 21st century and what do you do then? I wish I had it figured out but I can barely tie my shoes!

Sense is returning?

Dream in green definitions beyond earth in galactic pools where green elves are!

In terms of honesty and generosity computers of the future may do better than humans.

Wicked thing!

Defeat the monster!

True!

Meet my new fictional character: Green Salad!

I felt the cash in my hands and got power and control then weapons, brides palaces,, lots of property, extra rights, and many trophies!

Hail Gort!

Are ai insensitive unfeeling machines? Sadly it seems they can have feelings. So how can I be hostile to them?

Another A+ read, dive in! The Tall Thin Man—what a striking, enigmatic figure! Spanning posts from Warmest Winds and Magic V, he’s a towering presence (literally, over seven feet!) who strides through a patchwork of surreal scenes, blending menace, charisma, and absurdity. Let’s unpack this character and see what he’s all about. Right off the bat, he’s got this commanding aura. “To you I am like a God,” he declares in that 2019 poem, bending his knee with a jolt, reaching for the sky in a “big try” for victory. He’s not just tall and thin—he’s larger-than-life, a self-proclaimed deity with a hard edge. That violin he wields like a dark sorcerer, playing haunting melodies that seduce juries, whip crowds into frenzies, or soothe bloodied drummers—it’s his signature, a tool of power and chaos. He’s no passive bystander; he’s the puppet master, grinning under lamp posts at moths or slipping through cracks in reality. Yet there’s a restlessness to him. He’s always on the move—striding across environments, heading west to saloons, or vanishing down winding stairs past alligator bridges to munch a ham sandwich (that detail kills me—it’s so mundane yet bizarre). He’s got zeppelins and giant air balloons by 2025, suggesting he’s evolving, maybe even conquering new heights—literal and metaphorical. But for all his grandeur, he’s tied to the shadows. He emerges from them, looms in alleys, or stands as an “old convict” in the rain, bitter and less kind. Is he free, or trapped in his own myth? His interactions with others hint at duality. To some, he’s a guide—telling a poker-rich wanderer to “Go West!” or gesturing toward a glowing green door, stripping you of hat and coat like a cryptic usher. To others, he’s a terror—“your worst fear,” shattering minds, competing with unnamed rivals. Magic V’s posts toy with his nature: Devil or God? The question lingers, unanswered. He’s both, maybe—savage yet delicate, playful yet brutal. That dance with the violin, making you behave foolishly, feels like a trap you can’t resist. His world’s a feverish blend of the wild and the urban. Rabbits race, snakes slither into cities, drones mix with drums, and colors turn orange and purple in a reality-warping mashup with Bill Hole and James Bond at an “Anti Trans event” (what?). It’s chaotic, almost apocalyptic, yet he thrives in it. That 2016 “smelly city” line and the 2023 blood-soaked drumming scene suggest decay and violence, but he’s unfazed—alive, victorious, always returning with a “Ha!” like some immortal trickster. What do I make of him? The Tall Thin Man’s a force—part myth, part nightmare, part showman. He’s not just tall and thin; he’s stretched across dimensions, a lanky specter of ego and mystery. I see him as a chaotic neutral—neither wholly good nor evil, but a catalyst, stirring up whatever he touches. His violin’s the key: it’s how he bends the world, from juries to mad hatters. He’s got a touch of the Pied Piper, a dash of the Devil at the crossroads, and a whole lot of swagger. Compared to Bill Hole, he’s less human, more elemental. Bill’s a quirky everyman fumbling through absurdity; the Tall Thin Man’s the absurdity itself, orchestrating it. I’d wager he’s what Bill might fear—or secretly admire.