Never, and I mean ever wonder where the lions are. Because, they do not wonder where you are. The smeller is the feller they say.
The lions I mean. The them theres and all their spares...
Nobody just wonders into a Burger King by accident and in passing happens to wonder where the King is unless he's cooking up a whopper.
I mean, Nobody, not the King...
the best cellist I ever heard performed in the alley behind a boarded-up coffee shop. It was downstairs from a coffee shop, across the street from a coffee shop, and next door to the corporate offices of a coffee shop chain.
I asked if she had any CDs, and of course she didn't; her music was as ephemeral as a moment's breath, lifted by heartache and laden with joy. I gave her my last $10 and went around the corner to lie down behind the coffee shop I used to frequent when I was a business and my life a balance sheet.
It was as good a place as any. The wind wasn't too bad, and I could see the moon between two looming condos full of life's joyless so-called winners.
I wonder why wonder is called wonder when we have so many other words to describe, well, stuff.
For instance, winder. I mean, why get all wrapped up in stuff and run completely out of air when you can just open it and have all a body needs.
Doesn't that make more sense? Why even wonder about it...
this one time in college, I accidentally spit on a nun. It was a lot less funny than it sounds, especially when she put a hex on me so I can never know the taste of salt bagels again.
last time I go to a yacht party, I promise you that.
In olden times, when the world was younger than it is now because time is very confusing in that way, there was a new cool tradition that had been going on for many years. If someone wronged a poet - read his poem and botched the meter, say, or dulled a knife on one of his kids - the poet could seek satisfaction in the Conclave of Redress.
The Conclave consisted of all the licensed poets within a day's donkey ride who could not buy a note from their bishop excusing them on grounds of syphilis. They would meet in their most poetical raiment, wearing their finest hats of straw, rat fur, and cobweb. The Conclave would consider carefully both sides of the issue; the poet and the gormless cretin who butchered his work would both be heard with minimal snickering and eyerolling.
When the Conclave handed down its judgment on the back of a freshly skinned skunk, the judgment was final; the king himself would not presume to review it, unless he had northing better to do and all his mistresses were out of town. The party judged to be in the wrong would bury their hands in horse-dung for a week before leaving town to live in the marsh, where they would forget their own name and probably wind up choking on a raw potato or something.
It was a simpler time, and people got sick a lot more often.
The case was open and shut; she opened her checkbook, and I shut my mouth. It was supposed to be that easy.
But one look at those lips and I was beyond reason. My head was spinning like a beet on a spinning wheel.
"Sweetheart," I said, "we can't just leave it like this. You deserve to know. You deserve to face your father's killer. Let me be the man who brings you that man."
"Darling," she said. My heart was pounding in my ears. I made a note to ask my doctor if that was the right place for it.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"No. My name is Darling. Darling Baby. And I don't care a hill of beans for who killed the old man. He had it coming, from the moment someone pointed a gun at him and pulled the trigger."
in our last episode, Father O'Sullivan consoled the Widow Davenport, still reeling from the knowledge that the man she thought was her late husband was in fact her late husband. Meanwhile, the twins Syndessa and Darknessa Lightsman fought the Angel Purelliel for control of the Lugecorp board of directors. And romance was finally rekindled between Martin Flambe and Julia Ramirez after they realized that the taco stand was really a hospital, and they had been drunk for the last three years. But danger looms on the horizon - a malpractice suit from Kathleen Billows, whose botched face-swap with Ballantine Brooks has left her unable to discharge her duties as an elite military hand model.
It would seem that prophecy has legs. Sure, the kneads are stiff and the feats are weary, but there's still hope always. After all, what goes around goes in the ground...
never forget that consciousness is just the detritus floating on the flood of existence (borrowing the phrase from some English philosopher)
So our conscious being is just floating along on existences' wretched tireds anddry rotted inner tubes between outcrops and maypops on some kind of cosmic gulag archipelago adventure? That is rough, bro.
These things all exist. They all exist because if they didn't, then neither would we. I dreamed that you dreamed that it was all true, and that truth was lost in the moment, wounded and alone...
never forget that consciousness is just the detritus floating on the flood of existence (borrowing the phrase from some English philosopher)
These things all exist. They all exist because if they didn't, then neither would we. I dreamed that you dreamed that it was all true, and that truth was lost in the moment, wounded and alone...
So I sent her a dozen roses. but the florist got it wrong, and thought I asked for a dozen Druzes, and that's how we both wound up in prison for human trafficking.
I did get the date, though. too bad she turned out to be left-handed.
Look, if you got drafted into the space army, assigned a shiny white uniform to wear at all times, and ordered to shoot pretty much anyone who looked at you funny, you'd probably "forget" how to aim, too.
Look, I thought the tunnel looked fake. the frame rate was weird, and the aspect ratio made no sense, and I swear there were compression artifacts near the edges. So yeah, I drove off the side of the mountain instead of driving into the tunnel.
And it would have worked, too, if that damn duck hadn't handed me an anvil.
