Slapping his hand smartly on the bar the man exclaimed:
“I see the current fad of treadmilling as the perfect metaphor for modern man:
the great expenditure of energy in going nowhere,”
and everyone bellied up beside him shouting, “Hear, hear!”
as are men wont to do when a free drink could be in the offering,
at no more expense than some verbal treadmilling.
Not knowing where you’re going is not so bad if you have apparent supporters
cheering you on.
    (“This better not turn out to be about the various neurons and synapses
        in my cortex after I just sprang for new running shoes!”
  [Perhaps with the ostensibly less active in mind, a local sports doctor adds to the festivities:
  “Neural bed sores irrefutably prove two things.....”])
 
 

The peripatetic philosopher presently holding center court in city park speaker’s spot so declaimed:
“The truth my friends  –   the truth conspires to deceive us all.”
“What an encouraging thought,” muttered a passing pigeon.
A strolling nanny noted to the tyke in tow:
“It’s never too late to say you’re sorry  –   unless it’s already yesterday,”
which moved a man with a warm dog stand to muse:
“Those who will tell you everything they know are simply groping,”
a perspective that sheds new light on the nearby tree carving:
“The city serious are never at peace,” a notion that never fails to greatly annoy civilization, “After all,” notes it, “how else can the truth continue to deceive man!?”  –   a comment that caused all the park’s squirrels to howl with laughter.
Once upon someone’s time, neurons angrily –   and finally  –  cried out:
“Okay dammit!  –   who is that that keeps snickering at me under their breath?”
 
 

A father said to a son:
“Just as people can’t seem to grasp (or at least remember) the fact that
the purpose of a newspaper is to make a profit for the owner, not disseminate news, neither do men realize the role played by the thoughts published in
their consciousness.”
 
 

Observed one man:
“Although I may not physically be imprisoned,
there is something in my pocket certainly held captive.”
The only way the certain man ever gets anywhere is by first understanding
how you can’t.
    (“Hell! –   I can’t even understand what you just said about it.”

When alone, two things always make one man grin outrageously:
thinking about being alive, and thinking about being able to think about being alive.
 
 

Once upon a space, there was a single dimension who said to himself:
“Who needs those other directional forces!?  –
I’ll just go it alone and become a solo superstar,”
and while he apparently had the ambition and could talk a good game,
he did not foresee the inevitable inability for such as he to bring into existence
anything sufficiently substantial to be perceived by those with the power to
create the famous (read: humans).
Man’s special inner world may not be many things, but one of them is not, multidimensionality:
without a matter in this intangible realm be capable of being taken by mortal tongues
in a myriad of conflicting directions, it is doomed before it can ever begin.
This is why the Cyclops exists strictly in myths.                (And dreams of the rebels).
One man mused: “When I was a youngster, if I’d had as much fun playing with my mind as I did my dick  –   just think where I would mentally be today!”
    “But you did,” injected his mother, “that’s the only way you ended up in
      a story like this,”      (“Or reading it,” added his dad.)
Note: Everyday neural connections will still be stuck together long after
birds of a feather have scattered to the wind.
    (“You know: It’s really good to have at least one thing about your life on which you can absolutely depend         even if it is smothering you to death.”)
This email just in from a reader:
“I believe I understand some of the stories you print better than I do others,
and I understand some of them less than I do others,
but all told: I don’t really understand any of them.
Yours In Christ,” etc.
    (“Okay,” said the sheriff, “I’m sure of it now:
       whoever choked the chicken did choke the deputy.”
        [If everyone who tries to be cute, WAS cute, well.......who wants to even think about it.])
 
 

A man who thinks he does more with his years here than merely try to amuse himself
will believe he has some mission to accomplish in life,
and by so doing will greatly annoy both others and himself.
(But then again: if you feel unusual passion for life,
your only outlets are trying to either improve yourself or others.)
 
 

What naturally arises from the conscious part of a man’s brain,
and is taken by men to be their individual self,
is in truth: The ultimate institution.
  The collective, head-on with the personal;
    the collective, swallowing whole the personal;
      the collective, source of the illusion of the personal.
Only a man who grasps the nature of garbage dumps
understands the essence of spontaneous generation.
    (“Well no wonder man can’t comprehend how he got here.”)
There is a potential feature to the conscious part of the brain that, when realized, changes everything it thought it understood already.
    If wanting that,
    is what’s bugging you,
    then nothing else
    will ever do.
(“Well at least it’s nice to know what it is that you’re really after  –
even if you can’t seem to get it.........right?!”               Not for some.)
Once upon a world, there was a meat slicer which dreamed of slicing meat slicers;
all of its peer machinery said this was not possible, and so it seemed even to it,
‘til one day  –  the truth struck:
“It is not possible to imagine a potential intangible matter and then not be able to imagine the realization of it.”

'Tis a poor piece of equipment that can do but one job.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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