It's funny how the feeling comes and goes, the heat of its fires and the fierceness of a cold akin to death; the mind subtely stumbling along composing verses to the wind and no one. It is similar to the allegory of footprints in the sand and a limirick about a man from Nantucket, something about going for a walk and falling flat on your face because your legs have been cut off. Probably drunk. While else does a man with no legs try to walk? And a writer with no thumbs? That's also funny.
What's even funnier is my lack of concern. There are words, some dark and evil, and others ancient and true written into the very fabric of reality. These words have a certain amount of power to describe what is written for all to see. The slow churning of the universe does not concern itself with us. As a friend so aptly scrawled across my bathroom walls recently in spray paint: "The Universe is old. Time stands still. Fear will always exist. Enjoy the ride." HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA...
The joke continues!
