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[my Notifications and Responses etc. seem to be all out of sync. I’ll put this here and see what happens]

I did it again: make a rule, break a rule. Stupid boy. Sorry.

Babysteps is Gail. There is some reason.

That was inordinately difficult to write. You may congratulate me.

[this, on the other hand, is easy:

Babysteps Herriotta, mafiosa madonna, smiled silently atop the horse as her puppets danced, capering about the thing that neither of them understood. She loosed a string, and the hawk on her arm lifted, wheeling into the sky. Its bejewelled jesses flashed in the sunlight.

A messenger approached, bearing the standard of the Acolytes Of The Dressage. “Speak,” she commanded. The horse snickered.

… and so on. You don’t do fiction, do you? I can’t not do fiction*. Pray for me.]

So, here’s a plan: four threads. This one, which I expect to fizzle out shortly, indeed right now; the one nearby that’s meandering into Royal Wedding territory, likewise; a thing about Neil Young just below your long piece; and something perhaps a little bit like yours. That one will be freestanding somewhere, and take time, if it happens at all. A new departure, you inspiration you.

How did I get here?

*or barely-organized made-up nonsense