To my Bipolar Bear,

The best writers have said very

little

and the worst,

far too much.

When I work out which one I am, I'll stop writing.

I wore colour today.
It wasn't that bad.

I feel like an agoraphobiac bragging about making it to the mailbox.

The homeless manic depressive tunnel dweller whistled at me today. I've walked past him almost every day for a year and a half and he chooses today to whistle. Not sure how to take that.

Frank says:
Welll, It's Not Me Dear. I have become a Mature Man, One of Reason And of Science

One of these days i'll write something coherent.