Diminishing returns and the fluted sound of whales

May's here and I feel the Tahoma creepiness crawling back with force. Work coffee was weak this morning and ain't helping subside last night's martini swill with Jesse or the creak in my neck from resting my head on a plank afterwards. Things get better as they fall apart. The weekend blurred on by with an even dose of work and partying. Got my dance on Thursday through Saturday and my flip on Sunday. If ever I walk into another "reggaeton" oriented dancefloor I will kill myself and that day will most certainly not be a good day to die or even for that matter, a day where Jose talks me out of it. It had no grace, it had no bleep, it had nothing that nature intended save for bouncing breasts and the unavoidable cocks that seem to latch on and suck the soul out of women. Jealousy? Envy? Whatever happened to a friendly bump n' grind and a drink afterwards? Maybe I oughtta let the rotgut take over from here on out. There are bottom-feeders, delicate ocean sounds, and soft scents basking in the radiation and inebriation. I never once did really care for current events or how dirty street bulbs sometimes pass for the low-lying moon.