If one were to wait a minute for each molecule of rock to wash away, how many breaths would pass in anticipation of a change of visual perception before suspiration occurred? Would the feeling of infinity differ much from the feeling of a new chronometry based on molecules of a mountain washing away once every hundred years? If only we could baptize ourselves in such a way that our daily showers were of an officinal measure, removing all harmful impurities from not only our skin, but, also, our subcutaneous selves. While fungeous entities grow by absorbing molecules, water ‘grows’ by transporting them. So, perhaps, we, as humans, can grow in both ways as well: balancing input and output of our daily bread in order to become our strongest selves–even for the short time that we are here.


On an anniversary day she suspects may have been forgotten, hope still exists that she may meet him rising up as she is spiralling down and, that, once eyes lock and arms embrace, the first kiss might alight on her jugal area before proceeding to the lips for passion’s pressure. Alas, as her timepiece indicates a rendezvous will occur at nevermas, tears wash away the lingering stardust in her heart. Now, spiralling up, towards the roof, for a breath of fresh air, she breathes in peace from the night sky, realizing she has the power to lift up, Mutatis mutandis, her spirits both literally and figuratively. ; )


Why, oh why, cannot my fish fly? A fin is to swim as a wing is to fly, but what *really* is the difference between a fin and a wing? Are not they both used for propulsion? Steadiness? Turning? Perhaps, then, a fish is a bird of the water and a bird is a fish of the sky. “Horsefeathers!,” you exclaim. Well, who are you to gainsay my equalities? In fact, a horse with feathers is a Pegasus for sure and as it flies through the sky with wings it is also a fish of the sky. But, when a bird of the water–or a Pegasus, of course–decides to swim with its fins first, *before* attempting an afternoon fly as a fish of the sky, it must dry its fins into flightful form on a winter hedge before liftoff as it is certainly the case that neither a wing nor fin, if either of them is wet, will, to the sky, their owner, let. So, whether a bird of the water or a fish of the sky, be dry to fly and to swim, get wet. ; )


Is that the smell of danger or the scent of an acorn? Mr. Squirrel will either evade or discover as needed with paws typing on the branches as boustrophedon: to either side the senses carry until the tail may finally fall at ease. Oh, it is certainly not a vapid dance from limb to line as scurrying tickles even the barkiest pine. For Mr. Squirrel’s modus operandi is to prevent the season of snow from leaving him in a state of res angusta domi, the skilled terpsichorean will continue to thrive in the canopy stage with his groovy tree jive. ; )


The bindle stiff, tired of the action of bundle stuff, can not quite reach where his aching self yearns to stand. What places to go when tied to one’s feet? A library, of course! Everywhere in one seat! A tattered book for a tattered soul? Pages turned from white to yellow. But, the words are still seen and their messages are clear: from page to eye to brain to heart: their are no limits between here and there. Then, as the light passes the leaves astep the window, orchestic shadows draw thoughts back to the real. No plane is needed to return to destination, though, as there is no bond to here nor fare for return. A turncoat of turning coats as an identity has already been chosen; there are no others wealthier. And, while a return may be necessary for each wanted tome, the sonsy paperback, the first to light him, has always a home.

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