In extremis slender fungus, milk and coffee, fun among us. What was the propellor doing in the twisty-too bar with the rudder? What’s the shakes, handbrake? In some far-off land where the Jaberwock lives, and hard and pointillist sense is a thing anathema, these questions make sense. Why must everything make sense you ask? I don’t know. We’re not necessarily wired that way, but we’re certainly socialized in that manner. And mind your commas ,,,,,,,, and
G participles. Dangle this, nut case! I read this morning that an 89-year-old author is set to publish his, ostensibly, (mind the commas!) last two works in the next two months. Think of the finality of that. No more new work from this genius scribe—and we, he, know(s) this in advance of the action. Twittery-too and fongobblet is what I say. The jabberwock bird alight on that frumpus tree is slavering at you. It’s cold and dark there. Watch out.
What I’m Reading:
“Evil has no alternate plan. It is simply incapable of assuming failure.”
— Cormac McCarthy / The Passenger