Vague Hymns

Alas, his coat did not contain the warmth necessary to walk the distance. He was too tall and wiry to hold any heat himself; indeed, his mother always had accused him of being colder than the rooms in their abode as a young man. Not as a child, for he did remain quite plump until adolescence. It was on his thirteenth birthday that his grandmother realized how much he was beginning to look like his father. They had brought out the albums, showing him and telling stories about the man he had never known. The Great War had taken him, along with his brothers and led them to meet their maker, but everyone agreed that it was for the best. They did have to work harder, but this boy would grow up tall and maybe become a professional and never have to fight in a dreadful war like that.


But if he was to continue to make it to his classes, he would need a warmer coat. Perhaps something with down; that had always created the necessary effect when he slept through the cold nights of his youth. The comforter that he received on that birthday was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen: all white of course, for it was the finest cloth they could afford (the prices of dyes from Arabia really were quite outlandish) and it must have been half a dozen inches tall, stuffed with the soft feathers from uncountable geese, created as the absolute perfect complement to his thin bony frame which lost heat like the cabin they lived in.

Imagination < Life < Acting

Reality's scorn can be created from the simplest of annotations, with its sad imperfections leading the way to dusty death and its uplifting moments creating refreshment stands along the path to righteousness, and either one can be the correct choice, for the life in which we portray ourselves is less than acting and more than imagination. Accept this offer of subordination and allow me to create within your body a wormhole into something grander, not that there can be anything grander than the universe in which we live, which is almost my point. We live here unknowingly, not looking from outside because our eyes are too close to our brains and our brains are too close to earth, therefore leading our souls to be attached to both and therefore all three. Please pretend that nothing is real. Please feel that you are the only thing that exists, and even so it's only your mind that exists, and then you will realize, if you can jump to that plane of thought, that whatever you do is more than imagination because it has unexpected results, and it is less than acting because you don't have to memorize anything, you can just let it flow. Like what you are reading now is just a thing that isn't really here, but it does exist, even in its sporadic process of coming to a point.

I have been wanting a steak...

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Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

Science of Loneliness

Twelve twelve twelve. 12 is a number. Twelve is a word. 12 is a dozen. Dozen's a word. Dozens of words. Words are 5 letters. Dozen is too. Dozen is 1 word. 1 word of 5 letters of 12 things. Dozens are 6, but are many, yet still 1. 1 is the loneliest number. 12 is twelve of 1. 12 is twelve lonely number 1s working synergistically to create 1 single dozen of non-lonely participants. This 1 dozen is, in itself, alone for there is only 1, until there come dozens. 5 can be lonely, 6 is less likely to be.