Currently listening to "Japanese Song" by Lisa Ono. It's Brazilliant jazz. That's as witty as this post'll get.
She walked into the empty white room, bare and chilling, chilling and bare. There at the desk, surrounded by a stack of neurobiology papers and Erlenmeyer flasks, sat a woman, singing: "I'd rather be a hammer than a nail, yes I would, if I only could." She soon realized, she forgot what it felt like to question. Her inquisitive nature suppressed by the heels of a fast-moving Big Brother. What did it mean to Explore, to Express, to Ask? She reassured herself that forgetting was not the same as losing. Forgetting was only a temporary lapse in time. Perhaps her neurotrophins were dysfunctional. Maybe their receptors were getting lazy. Nonetheless, the auspicious prospects that lay ahead of her kept her going. She awaited the days when,
exotic spices and fresh guava,
and overused pencils and paintbrushes,
and poetic starry nights,
and cool tiles against her hot feet,
and the soft strumming of a guitar,
and the murmurs of a foreign and exciting place,
would be all she knew. She had perspective. And she had family. And she had good friends that meant the world to her. She wasn't unhappy, but she wasn't all that happy either. She missed the feeling. She was nostalgic for passionate emotion; sad, ecstatic, desire, anything. For the time being, she needed some kind of spark to ignite the fire dwindling inside of her.
Tactfully,
T.J. --Master of Subtlety
The blue man hugs the red 
