The close-eyed treatment for the master minion

Last week, as was discovered, is the last possible week for entries in the spring contest. I know I've been training diligently, but have recently "fallen off the wagon," of good hope. Training was quickly replaced last week by judiciary freelancing, a task at which I neither excel at nor enjoy. I saw before me library lavender dream stacks of high concentration material. It was overwhelming to say the least, the tip of the iceberg as related to my tipping point. I lost track, most certainly, of the tasks at hand, and was buried alive in a virtual wave pattern of intense thought emitting from cracks in the walls that I had not even noticed before. It was deep. It was bittersweet. It was gravitational but with the feeling of gravel. It meant a lot, and it was harmful (as usual). The end affect: a deletion of the feeling of self-consequence; a relief of order, also known as an entropic event that leads to my eventual "dropping out, but not tuning in." Shit.

So I missed the boat, but remember, spring lasts until the second to last week in June, so there's still time for the rest of you. Turn the mechanical gearing until you hear a final click and feel less resistance. Don't go too far. We'll meet again at the corner of Halstead and some other street where we usually meet. Or maybe we'll never meet again. I guess that every 30 seconds somebody goes missing in Chicago. Hey, it's a big city.