No Faults. No Alarms.

A pound and a half of tri-tip nip, and dip, in my belly. Fry day on Saturday. Hands smokey. Taking out the trash. Taking out the always present disposition of negativity overflowing here. I'm dreaming of new beginnings. I'm dreaming of packing up and checking out. I'm dreaming of foreign lands, and lengthy train rides to green pastures. Greed pastures of golden herb. Growing in tranquil halogen packed herbicide ridden science project. Yielding pounds of freedom. Yielding pounds of I do what I want, when I want, always. I'm dreaming of France. I'm dreaming of calling political asylum. I'm dreaming of us taking a trip, and not coming back. Border countries. Flying, driving, train, thumbing it. But leaving. The grass is always greener. Things always get better. Then in retrospect. Nostalgia for lessons learned. I have a scar for learning that. And It is very noticeable. The grass was dead when I got there. It had turned to earth. The earth had turned to sand, and nothing would grow. Nothing but scar tissue as far as the eye could see. I am not receiving my transmit. It's getting all looped. We have to put up a simulation, to see if the distant end is getting us. Looking for all green. No faults. No alarms.