Obligatory "ignore this space" : https://sacoronavirus.co.za

Leaving people to think what they want to think is part of toleration, but we really have to stop with the 'patting on the back' - it gets commuted to a pat on the head; and now I'm just dangling on my own strings.

Each thought that comes needs something like a narrative: something like what would be how to treat with what's dangling. Calling it Friday, we'd need racists of all races to open their fucking eyes when they read.

So I say to Friday, 'you-me do more nice-making?'

But he's looking at pretty colours, and pretty lights; and if I manage to communicate that I want to discuss the whatever that allows us to 'interact,' he'll reply, 'me touch! me hold!'

So I take a glance at another workspace and ask myself, 'is this the real life, or is this just fantasy?'

Bethinking myself of finding out by means of written communication, the prefix of the tongue-shakespearean asks me if that wasn't just a matter of reading my own words, and reducing myself to one screen.

This means configuring things.

This is not my favourite: every time we dig into the system we find there's been a significant number of changes in terms of neatening things up. GNU finally became painless on the matter of 'getting into X' but that necessarily brought about the multiplicity problem.

Ye olde /etc/X11!

The 'modelines' that this required us to try to figure out had everything to do with those screens with bulges in the middle that we asked everyone to ignore, and rather to look at what got printed. These config items had to do with timing that electronic engineers who fiddled with vacuums, knew about.

I'm not sure whose fault the bulge was; all I knew is that I had to look at numbers that made no sense to me.

Refresh rate involved a problem of interlocking that was very much noticed if we 'didn't get it right' - words come to me, but I'm sure those come from descendents of game makers: you know, the ones with blood-and-guts.

And that brings me to a personal matter which is none of your business, and no thanks to me.

Or my ancestors? Now you ask me?

• 1.51472/9