Dialectics and Dionysos

Месяц с половиной, а тогда.

Dispersed into the Fray and Such Trifles

The skies have grayed, again, after an extened lack of lack of colour. It is calming to me, not in any way that clear skies do not allow a reduced frenetic state of my consciousness but it allows things to be just, так. Bit of a lapse in posts in a while, in part from my again frenz.ied working and non-working blocs of time composing the days, in part that there aren't as many inspiring experiences rivalling those possible across borders of culture and of comfort. Summer has again become the mundane.
I have just felt a bit unsettled, really. When conversing with people I don't feel like launching into talk of work as it dominates an absurd proportion of my waking hours already. Recalling the constant fresh perspectives in Украина when not around Andy or Lindsay seems to drag on most, it becomes repetitive in setting and most people have no way to really relate to it. Aside of such points, I have the levelly unrelated and ominous embarking to Санкт-Петербург to apprehensively shine within, and such talk is mostly a strained expression of that apprehension at the full immersion into Eastern Europe. I will be без passport for the first month after I land in Россия, as the application for a extended multiple-entry visa requires the Russian Federation playing футбол with my official US documents for a bit and there isn't even any chance of me throwing any head butts or red cards at them. It is probably a solid disopportunity to not be in posession of my passport for a bit though, as in one end of things I will only be allowed a single-entry visa for the first month and the possibility, as low as it seems in sobriety, of a non soberous personal excursion around the Baltics relying on bribes or self-constructed seagoing vessels to pass through international lines remains a possibility. Digressing, the expanse of Russia accessible without my passport once I am within the borders should be overfilling for at least that month.
The afore lines show exactly the point I started off on before I lost and refound and then misplaced, or something of the sort, and if anyone is even lacking in anything else to do and reading this is probably making sleep, or any other activity seem a Strong Alternative to Such. So conversations or monologues resort to the mundane. As if it is something to resort unto.
Unsettled. Who needs a drink. Things are sort of right, and at the same instance not so. I am listening to a resounding amount of electro, now transitioning into much Radiohead and Apparat. I have been absorbing Waking Life. I have watched French movies on emotion and searched for a tango track to sound through my days. Всё это же так, а не так. I am holding a sea weathered eye to the horizon.