If only I could handle emptying out everything for a few brief moments so I can clear-up enough to think of something worthwhile to write about. Any sort of inspiration that once existed in my brain has been vacuumed out by boredom and laziness. This morning my friend in California called me on a TTY telephone even though he's not deaf. It was very strange relaying conversation to a complete stranger with a wisconsin accent. She added almost no emotion to her voice. Later on, said friend told me he used TTY because it was free, and because he is a relay operator as his job. He called me on the TTY to show me what he does for a living, to illustrate it all. He told me that sometimes the conversations that he relays gets steamy, or that the people talking argue. He added, also, that in these special cases, he tends to get a bit more dramatic to portray the emotion of the conversation better. I can imagine it being sort of like reading from a script, even though the woman who relayed the conversation this morning was the worst actress imaginable. Tonight I went out to dinner with my parents: on the drive home, the moon in the dusky sky was a bright, neon pink. My sister told me it's because there are forest fires up in the mountains. How sad, that when forests are burning to a crisp, the moon is astonishingly beautiful.