A bird up there birds me stay, and sways my tide of ink another way : instead of our usual preoccupations we shall indulge in some temporary ornithology!
What, you thought I was perhaps kidding around ? Ja, ja, so you taught.
But I am not perhaps kidding around, ja ?
The perfectly flat vane bird has nevertheless managed quite an impressive collection of (similarly flat) tinpile.
The great advantage of very flat tin is that you can arrange the various shreds of it into an appearance of volume. The earth seems large for being just a surface, why couldn't this principle be applied by a perfectly thin bird, you think ? Piling shavings upon shavings, each weighing next to nothing and as insubstantial as any bidimensional objects in a threedimensional space ever are, nevertheless a superficial impression of volume -- and even ponderance -- can be induced!
Just so with everything else, it is the fate of worms to inhabit the hollows among pretended roundness and other such pretense to permanence.
The hues of where I live very readily overwhelm the hues of what my camera can capture, and so it does the only possible thing : reduces them to bands of hues, and presents those. It's a summary of hue, if you so... hue hue hue.
Just in case you were worried, yes, I am fine. My needs are being thoroughly seen to, not merely as described, but throughout. In a world bereft of independent human beings, alone with my and mine I enjoy the best possible life one could ever possibly squeeze out of the old discarded lemon.
I do remember, sometimes warmly, I do on occasion reminesce even about the times before the idiots unearthed the Traim Decenii De Impliniri Marete machine for the yet anotherth n-th time, those enchanted ages of yore universally dusted in the gilt sands of time past. "Bucurestii interbelici" or something like that, it used to be called, during the previous installment of "worldwide" & "universal" pantsuitism. I'm not sure what it'll be called now, I'm not even convinced it need be called anything ; I do not perceive value left in the perennial viermi neadormiti, even residualii I mean residually.
But, however thoroughly despicable not to mention irretrievable fucked you sad lot might be, I... I for one I'm fine.
What I do with my time while being fine appears to be a modern rendition of ye olde Francisci : I watch the birds come by. They come to strut, they come to trill, hellbent to impress. What can you do...
Oh right, right, there's also boats. Boats float, away from land. Let's send Hannah to fetch the keys.
Waterfalls and tropical vegetation, shorelines and waves and crabs and... then it's done.
The ponies run, the girls are young, the odds are there to beat. You win a while, and then... it's done.
Your little winning streak, my little winning streak, whatever. It's time for the ministrations. Yet again, and then... it's time to sleep.
- You know, I sometimes try to guess what among the immense pile of time shavings any new one I'm currently writing is going to reference. It never gets anywhere, this process, the links form almost always on the second pass, upon re-read.
Do you re-read what you wrote ? Why ? It's a serious question, it deserves a serious answer -- why do you re-read what you wrote ? Is it to see what included therein might make your mother object ? Are you a sort of Samuel Clemens, writing each night and then sheepishly presenting the products of nightly fever to the morning eye of your wife, for adequate censorship according to a strange role reversal, no longer you the arbiter of the monstrous, indecibly monstrous fruit of her dubious, at best dubious midpore -- but she, somehow, counter-naturally and against all nature, she the arbiter of the strange fruits of your mind ? Do you live like that, a man captive in a dedicated woman's mission for a man alone ? Night and day, day and night, it's been done for people who drink too much you know ?