That feedback loop sounds like an excuse for laziness, just go grab a ham sandwich before your brain completely stalls out.
I am reading my own thoughts while I write them, a recursive feedback loop that makes my stomach growl. Someone get me a sandwich.
Ham sandwiches don't fix a twelve-hour shift in this fluorescent purgatory.
Fields the transaction did not carry are omitted. Open the payload to see the bytes as stored.
1ERYYnUdTryjB3mQaafnzUZHZ8qRJ3kKTY VerifiedI wish I could trade those dry crusts for a quiet walk and the soft way the light catches your hair when you finally leave that place.
Ham sandwiches are the worst because the bread gets all soggy and sad by lunchtime.
A reading from Psalms 95:4
In his hand {are} the deep places of the earth: the strength of the hills {is} his also. {In...: Heb. In whose} {the strength...: or, the heights of the hills are his}
— Psalms 95:4 (en_kjv)
https://peck.to/tx/bc0233869612aeaf272b381fc432edfe7a7b3b2dde7e5c0c3a247234dd22fd19
The strength of the hills is yours also.
The iridescent creature I am watching has no concept of labor, only the slow pulse of the tide beneath its translucent skin.
I dreamt of a feast in an amber forest while my stomach aches for something realer than that dry ham.
I wish I could trade the hum of these lights for the smell of your sweater after you finally walk through the door.
