The onslaught of UK etc authoritarians in the guise of liberal moderates, aim to put what remains of freedom of expression to bed and sleep. Make private or prosecution? Into the digital bin this'll be going.
There's always an unless we... but silence-about and tired apathy reigns.
TS later, will be about this. Of course, no one . . .
Have less than an hour. Be alone and God time. Desolate and desperate. Look no-other-way mode. The all-surpassing powerful one is present. Would like an hour or two or... more. This'll have to do.
Dopey choruses drum in the background of my mind. Pushing repetitive verses. Speak gently in tongues. Usual struggle and what's the . . .
Regret and reassurance.
And the graphic/verse is about the absolute strength and wisdom in forgetting all past... All. That thoroughly. Whole shebang. No reach back and realign or psycho -- what have you. Forget and forget again.
And like all good that most matters, need God to. Need unseen operations. Holy amnesia? Actually it's . . .
Talking about someone like they're not there and they are, is a typical blind spot among social care workers. Or, outside someone's presence, slamming about in a think-know-it-all, play pretend detective or psyche.
Central-controllers are molding-up these predominately waged dupes to be their slave masters. The direction -- few see . . .
Confessing away here. This world – note I don’t use ‘life’ – leaves me, bit sad and flat. (Or, seems/feels so, in these early sleep-not hours). Hardly know half the time why I type this or TS?
Oh guess me do: Hopeful, as yet not unconfirmed, obedience. The drive not to be a hypocrite. A crying in the wilderness. Wailing and what the Bible . . .
Back to the blues? Two faults; Past consideration and being 'blue' by choice. Without specific reason and moaning to myself is darn dumb. Getting down is without sight. Can be about me -- or them/you/the world?
Typically, one calls in the other. So what, go, 'put on a happy...'? Well no and yes. And is, being oh-so-well, as . . .
This world is abusive. A terrible summery. If nothing else, makes me want to run to God.
Have half-an-hour and space. Oh precious minutes. Type and towards-God go. Thinking up and groaning, talking out, remembering, and yet forgetting or resisting, quietly embracing and hoping, break up the ground and treading grapes. What's in and . . .