Call me up if you're a nomad. (To the tune of that Pink track.)

I couldn't do much work. Not recently. Too lit, I suppose. I've been floating for a spell, and I can't report a volume of wind in my sails.

I'm sitting here listening to music. I'm pumping stitch after stitch through the edge of a rug that is destined for my van. The Sienna.

I carved all my long-lost belongings out of the interior of Big Blue. My previous abode. The tall and stalwart wanderer. I almost left my EZ-Pass. I almost left my wedding ring.

This fucker is shaping up. Can I speak freely? Thank you. I used to use wood and glue and screws. Now I adhere with zipties, rivets, shock-cord, fabrics, and thread. There is a learning curve. It is buzzing around my head like 999 bees.

Call me. My name is Chris.