The blah gets louder as the days wear on and I realize my employers seriously harbor hope the sheer weight of my workload would split my cells into cloning (the cells refuse on principle and I slog on as a single productive unit). Or that finally, bleary eyed, I read the morning's Daily Scopes on my supa phone and there it is. The Golden Venus beatifically forewarning a halt to all Venusian initiatives since we are love-wise “between worlds”.
What is that? Limbo? Except it dawns on me that IF in fact my love world had an address it would be the Corner of Deep Chastity, post code Zero Zero Sex, Virginlandia, US. And. It would be a ghost town. Cue the bramble bushes blowing across the road. Nary a cowboy in sight.