We proudly speak an Indo-European language.

Let me arrange your next marriage.

Are you happy with your current mule breeder?

Avoid property taxes, become a nomadic herder.

21January was my birthday. 73. Pretty amazing. We went to a fancy Italian-themed chain restaurant, Maggianno’s Little Italy. There were families there. Several babies were there, passed around the table for aunts, uncles and grandparents to cuddle and smile at. A little girl with pigtails was eating penne pasta, beside her pregnant mom and little brother, who had yet to receive his first haircut. Another family featured 10 and 12 year-old brothers showcasing their table manners. They did well.

This is a restaurant that gives free desserts on special occasions. I received a crème brûlée to share with J. There was a bodacious quantity of food to take home. J finished off the crème brûlée first.

I took a nap, watched some football, even though I said I wouldn’t. Robert came by with a French tart from Whole Foods. Tasty, a perfect birthday indulgence

I could say more and I just might later.

I’m breathing slowly, sitting in my chair, waiting for a train to pass on the Virtual Rail Fan YouTube Channel. The Amtrak train, #97 Southbound Silver Meteor, passes through town, on the way to Miami.

I can imagine a couple, newlyweds, on The Orange Blossom Special, headed to Miami Beach, for a stay in an Art Deco hotel and a properly improper honeymoon. Is it their first time? We won’t say.

What we do know is that both are eager. They’ve spent their lives wondering, reading the marriage manuals. Now, packing condoms, pessary and spermicide, these naive innocents will began their adventure in adulthood

The return trip will include college on the GI Bill, mortgage from the VA, that shiny new DeSoto, and an inexhaustible supply of diapers from the Stork Diaper Service.

He hopes his job at the advertising agency, handling the cigarette account will be lucrative. She hopes she won’t be too bored with keeping the house, playing canasta, and listening to how her neighbour Betty lets her hubby Sam, take her back there. At least she won’t get pregnant. Again.

All these little dramas end when the letter from The Government arrives, telling him he’s been called back, to report to Camp LeJeune for God knows what.

So it’s off on an another train, alone this time, as the Twentieth Century unfolds before him.

I have one light on, in the open area between the living room and den . There is light enough to see the keyboard and the text I create.

On the television, streaming from YouTube is the webcam picture of the railroad tracks in Ashland. I’m waiting for #98 The Silver Meteor , bound ultimately for New York. The train originated in Miami, travels past Cape Canaveral, St Augustine, Jacksonville, Savannah Charleston, the North Carolina Piedmont , into cotton, tobacco, and peanut country. It passes the commercial hog farms with their noisome smells. I can’t recall if the Meteor stops in Smithfield, North Carolina. If it did, one could disembark and visit the Ava Gardner Museum Her shrine sits near the tobacco fields, whose produce ultimately killed her. Irony is merely knowing too much.

By the time the train reaches Virginia , with more cotton, peanuts, soybeans tobacco and hogs, we have seen the South, in all of her tragedy, glory and squalor.

This is about as old as one can get in America, except for Santa Fe in New Mexico. Four hundred years from Jamestown and the malaria that prompted a move to higher ground in Williamsburg and architecture only a Rockefeller could duplicate.

I wish I could say the Silver Meteor stopped in Williamsburg, but it doesn’t. It crosses Virginia at the Fall Line of the Appomattox, the James, the Rappahannock and Potomac, of battlefields and burial grounds, the dirt patches of war, so readily forgotten, but for the Myths engendered.

I should go back to bed, the little bed, maybe to sleep some more and dream of lovers I’ve never met, of wives now divorced, dead or who simply spurn me in Baptist purity, a chastity reclaimed.

Time for another cup of tea, as I watch a freight hauling plywood.

Good morning, folks.

By considering what I don’t act on as an indicator of what I fear, I can tell you that my own happiness is my greatest fear. So many things I keep bottled up, unexpressed, private to only myself.

Now, if I want to be a writer, an author, this is a great big helping of cognitive dissonance that I keep piling on my plate.

It’s time then to write. I have an entire life of experiences where I’m not the hero. I was waiting to be a hero. But I’ll never be that hero.

I simply have to write the damn books.

I don’t know if I’m frustrated with my world that is shaped or sculpted by the metaphorical hands of cognitive dissonance or what. But, in simplest terms, I both like to pray and I like to fuck. That paradox in the modern world is damn near irresolvable.

Right now I’m too tired or too lazy to deal with this paradox. So I’ll struggle a little longer, be uncomfortable a little longer, endure the modern world just like a character in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, or H. G. Wells’ Things To Come.

Don’t ever tell the power elite, you can perceive the cruelty permeating their abattoir, that the drugs and the hedonism don’t work any more and we’re all expecting the concussive blow to the head.

Our only hope is the rebellion that will crush the militarists, globalists, and thieves who seek to enslave humanity. We, the small and broken, must resist the robots, automation, and artificial intelligence, the tools and toys of the global elite that seek to destroy us.

Rant over.

It was a somewhat bulky item in the envelope . He could guess what it was from how it felt. There were some card stock and paper items also. And two keys. There was a return address he did not recognise.

Using his paper knife, opened the envelope, saw that one key was to a residential door lock, the other to a small padlock..

He noticed the panties. They had been worn prior to mailing. He set them aside, moved to the photographs. They were of a woman whom he did not recognise. She was modelling a chastity belt, locked at the waist . There was a screen for the wearer to pee through.. There was enough space to accommodate a pad, if the belt was required or desired during the woman’s cycle.

The house key was attached to a tag with an address. Finally a note said, “She is waiting. Your cheque has cleared the bank.”

Pocketing the key, he drove to the address, strode to the door, unlocked it, entered the apartment. Waiting for him was the woman, naked, except for the chastity belt. Unlocking the device, she dropped to her knees before the man

He carried a very business like satchel, obviously his toy bag

“May I open your fly and suck your cock?”

“Yes. Now”

She pulled his cock through the open fly and swirled her tongue around the corona, then put the tip of her tongue into the pisshole. He said nothing, did not smile, was expressionless until his erection protruded from his trousers.

“Nice, slut. Now turn around, ass up.”

“Stay there. Don’t move. “

Play with your clit. Show me how you like to be stroked, frigged, played with.”

He watched as her fingers got busy, slowly at first, then with a faster, regular rhythm .

“Tell me, Whore, do you like it in your asshole?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Spread your ass cheeks then”

He saw her little rosette, then hovered over her and let fly a gob of spit, that landed perfectly on the pucker .

All this time the satchel he carried with him was unopened . Opening the bag , he removed a plastic tub of lard., scooped out a dollop. Covering his index and middle fingers he thrust them into her hole, deep up to where the fingers meet the palm of his hand. He worked the digits in and out.

His free hand kept her cheeks spread.

“ Work that cunt.” And she frigged herself as if she were alone, like a teenager under the covers. More lube from the tub filled his fingers , then her hole and his fingers moved in rhythm with her own frigging.

His cock, slathered with grease , pressed at her hole . He slowly pushed, just the tip, then a little more , while she continued her masturbation. Her breathing quickened, her fingers focused on her clit.

“Goddamit I’m gonna come! “

And as she shouted “FUUUCCKK!” He shot his load into her ass.

“You are quite the fuck, Bitch. “

Go clean yourself up, let that jizz leak out , and come back here.

Returning to him. he smiled , hugged her. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a little box of fancy chocolate truffles.

“A little chocolate is always nice“

She nodded in agreement.

I looked at my phone. All I saw were three anumerals 623. Was it dawn? Or dusk?

I looked out the door. The recycling still remained at the curb. My neighbour was starting her car, headed to work?

My disorientation was assuaged when I saw that it was 6:30 AM in New York on the World Clocks.

Did I dream of an afternoon nap?

If it was afternoon, why was my wife sleeping beside me and not at work ?

Right now, at 8:30, the lawn mowing cadre is at work. I have found on the Internet Archive, a Vietnamese woman masturbating on camera. She is naked, with a Picachu stuffie to her left.

And I am sleepy again. The Vietnamese woman has some sort of sex toy inserted in her vagina to help with her self- pleasuring and now uses a Doxy wand vibrator to stimulate her clitoris and labia. She is wearing a K95 mask. Must be a plague year.

I am watching typical images of our time. I can adjust my set and watch a cricket match , a home remodeling show, or a documentary film from World War Two of an SS man murdering Jews in Ukraine.

It’s the Information Age, ya know?

Not McCauley Culkin, me. J is at work. She doesn’t want me driving until I receive my new glasses in my post-cataract surgery prescription. Never mind that I can see perfectly well without glasses and all the new “specs” will do is correct my astigmatism

Oh well. Time to watch other people’s old home movies from the Internet Archive There are Dutch children learning to ice skate with the aid of a 4-legged stool.

J will be home after 11 from her shift at Target.

I’ll watch some football shortly, if I can stay awake.

Despite the potential negative outcomes of falling on my face, all is well. No brain bleed or broken teeth or broken nose. I can say I dodged a bullet. I also did not fall because of a brain tumour.

We’re addressing the issue of a Vitamin B-12 deficiency as the most likely cause of the balance issue. I’m getting Vitamin B-12 injections.

The corneal abrasion has healed.

I am returning to my usual routine, except for night driving. I guess I could do that but I need glasses in my new prescription, that will largely correct my astigmatism.

I did not elect for toric lenses when my artificial lenses were put in. I guess I’m old-fashioned and want glasses, particularly for a no-line bifocal for reading and close work.

In with the new old routine!