How can silence or expression stop or start here for anyone?

I could be a lot physically happier right now, but I finally transferred all of my music off of Bertie of blessed memory's hard drive and onto this still new and nameless machine so that I can listen to audio I have been missing for more than a year, which at the moment appears to mean a whole lot of primarily Boston-scene punk of the '70's and '80's and the 1993 BBC Radio 3 Sunday Play of Tom Stoppard's Arcadia because nothing cheers me up like hearing art school dropouts make weird noises and Bill Nighy moan, "Fucked by a dahlia!" The latter gives me a good excuse to link to this fic, which like everything else I read for Yuletide in 2023 got overlooked at the time. The former is currently making me feel a little unstuck, but it could also just be the state of my blood sugar. Have some Salem 66.

It's a twisted road, but I'd like to fall down it in a go-cart

I had a successful and informative medical procedure which was overall reassuring while not actually solving the mystery of the last month of ill health and before I pitch over onto the couch, here is the piece of wood in the driveway which looked like a fossil when we left the house this morning.