You know what happens to a balloon, don’t you, if you blow
it up and then let it go without tying the end off? It flies purposefully
across the room before fluttering weakly into a corner where it assumes its
rightful status as a flaccid, inert piece of pointlessness. Flat.
I had three posts in mind today, on:
1. The casualties among the Shire’s tree population as a
result of recent storms.
2. A speculative theory as to why we humans like things to
be clean.
3. The Priestess, aka my Chinese ghost, aka my Irene Adler,
aka my Mary Magdalene (the real one, not the Christian character assassination.)
They didn’t get made because when you’re feeling flat your
words come out flat, a fact to which a reading of recent posts will attest.
Anybody got a balloon pump?
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