all about it, and tonight it's prickly, sour on the edges– it's a shapely wicked thing. I keep seeing patterns, though not my own. why this urge for hyperarticulated definition? is it all the sourcing laser cutters and wire vendors– bending this way and that with the whims of, too often, others? one of those days, yes. how describe it. how describe. alphabets unwind on me, zigging nonsense– shapely, yes. such a crooked pasta. trails get lost with perspective. I want to be rounder and rounder and still sharp and dimensional.