Man, y’know, alphabetically speaking, there’s not that many letters in the word, ‘hello.’ What, five? make it six, and you got a winner! seven, you’re pushing the proverbial envelope postmarked in artificial cherry-red ink to Shangri-La. Folks try so hard to dig into mysticism and ulterior/interior meaning, but, hey, it gets them to a point of purposeful inaccuracy disguised as random guesses. Nobody can blame them because they don’t exist. Even if they did exist, they’d be too busy moving from one hotspot to the next to worry about our mumbling attempts to interpret the Jesus-shaped-watermelon-seed-madness currently gaining a following in America’s most populous retirement communities. EVEN—EVEN if that happened, and for shits and giggles, let’s say it did: well, my friends, there we have the runt of the littered questions strangers sketch into a two-AM sky without any consideration for the time and/or place on which they intrude.
Outrageous, really, how we figure it all combines in a fortune teller triangle, each flap representing our wild, zany, ridiculous predictions–of course, they’re not entirely ridiculous because ridiculous things have some attached meaning. Fry cooks and security guards, the working mill; oh, and we are so unsure as to their roles in the situation, like the hole in the donut. Question of the century, ‘Is It A Finger-Nook Or Just Make-Believe?’ All the same, we eat them, and soon, the donut is itself a hole.
Interpretations perturb the spectacled hedge-trimmers stalking the midnight burroughs of the sane and sound, and BLAAAAAOOOOOPPPPP! goes the elephant trumpet to warn of mental breach. A donkey sits at a porch table and recounts the tale of poor Nobody Nink, Unknown Occupant of Room ###hereitgoeswegoagainupandaroundandsidetosidealongthemerrigoroundoftime
Flying monkeys seem absurd to us because absurdity is naturally unnatural.
In what a world we live to see some truth, in what a world.
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