Not actually a blimp.

You’ll find very little paper here.

Finally got around to reading Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep

Random shots around the office. Enforcing mandatory photography action.

Former boss on the left, call sign of Green Mile. Shot mid 2003.

Historical hex editing.

Told as only a webcam-shot-in-a-pitch-black-tent-while-the-generator-emits-death-moans can tell.

This is how I sit. Pointing to some indefinable source of creativity deep beneath the cranial surface, like that magma under Yellowstone. Massive and threatening whose true impact comes only later, not now.

By the laws that govern the sacred act of BLOGGING I hereby claim that I will write more. Here, there, maybe even in public. It seems that only under the gut-wrenching strain of deadline can I exhibit even cursory production, as if that gland only cooperates when forcibly squeezed between a ticking clock and the threat of mediocrity.

It’s like TV, only a fly trap.