Ta-da!

BumWit said what shall we write about (except not shall, because, really, who says shall nowadays? The same people who say tomfoolery. Namely to say, me.)? I have no clue what we shall write about, except I am writing about it and it is nothing.

But not the Great Nothing of the Neverending Story fame. I have no large flying luck-dragon, though I probably could use one. (When I look at the above sentence, I process "fuck-dragon," which is an entirely different kind of dragon, indeed).

I just want to write with BumWit because it will amuse me terribly and with any luck (!), cause me to stretch my brain capacity just a little more than it's currently being stretched. Except stretching makes me sleepy. And that makes me think it's time for a nap. Glorious, glorious sleep.

I instinctively distrust those who do not dream at night. They obviously have no souls.