In from the detachment center, cool, summer nocturnes as throated in the solitary refinement of bulging, red-eyed frogs; heard them in the garage, now here in my bedroom. Storm's passed several miles, twenty minutes away, I'd say.

Those folks I call co-employees are fucking pathetic. If they don't know, they never will -- how or why I respond to them. Jeremy being an exception. From what I take out of our repair, our interactions amongst the others, he isn't like them. He smokes, sure, but nothing illegal. He drinks, sure, but does so with some class -- meaning, he doesn't do it in order to entertain anybody.

The one problem is, I can hardly hear him.

Though can I even hear myself?

I'd very much, at this stage, like to think so.

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