Odes in praise of hard physical labor are seldom scribed by those who do it.
(Aka: Cartographers-who-know are scarce with directions.)
But in explanatory “defense” (you might say), all routine human learning comes
through the unknowing asking the knowing for guidance, but the interesting feature
to a few is that in routine human affairs, there are none who know  –
men can believe they know  –  others may even support the notion that they know,
but what is there to know about the contents of an empty box!?  –
you can look inside and see for yourself that it is devoid of any substance,
but after so realizing, can an ordinary man then simply say to others:
“There is nothing there”?  –
look around and judge the answer to that question for yourself.
 
 
 
 

Nothing is one-hundred-percent....unless you count non-existence....but if you do,
it then no longer fits its own definition.
    (“Pa pa, is that why, when you are in your knowing-mind, you say so little?”)
In rebel territory, only silence accurately describes itself.
 
 
 
 

One day a typically civilized, educated & sophisticated man suddenly wondered: “Based on my general perception of their relative importance:
Why does my cortex make more noise than say my liver, or kidneys?  –
is there something codfishy going on here?”
   If there is sir, at least it’s not behind your back.
“Ah, contraire,  –  from my perspective, the activities responsible for my mind’s constant, unacceptable output seem to most certainly occur out of my sight  –
if that were not so, why else would I, the personification of a normal, rational person, allow such a situation to persist!?”

On one world is a race track whereon the participants run around real fast clockwise
for a few laps, then turn around and run in the opposite direction.
   (See this as a neural track and much of earth’s fogginess dissipates.)
 
 
 
 

Local conditions (or maybe it was a local god) wants a certain man charged with murder, treason, blasphemy, crimes against humanity and urinating without a license
to serve as an lesson  –  top-to-bottom, across-the-board  –
to anyone else who might be tempted to start-something!
 
 
 
 

As the third act of one chap’s life opened he was overheard muttering:
    “Entombed, entombed
      is what I am – 
      not yet dead yet still entombed  –  inside of ME!”
 
 
 
 

As the troops, engaged in the struggle to liberate themselves from the inside out,
performed their morning drill, they chanted:
    “One, four, six, eight,
      who do we incinerate!?”
 
 
 
 

The operations of city systems are not dependent on men’s actual need for them.
Man’s second-reality was the original dream-field in which it was first said that
if it is built  --  people will come and partake.
Neurons can never resist playing in the air castles they construct.
   (“That raises the question [for instance]:
       Who is the most deluded: priests or their parishioners?”
           “Priests, you'd hope.                                           Wouldn’t  you!?”)
 
 
 
 

On one world, at daily roll call every morning,
those who know-what's-going-on don’t answer when their name is called.
 
 
 
 

An observer from another orb opines that the purpose of earthly poets is to
verbally conjure up future torments even worse than those he declares extant today.
   (“It’s a lovely job,” says a chap in a beret,
    “and I'm glad I'm the one who gets to do it.”)
 
 
 
 

The description of a thing is one of its features.
Fact: All features of second-reality subjects are rough-hewed, unbalanced,
asymmetrical and unstable            (in fact this could be the tacit motto of the city).
 
 
 
 

The Music Of The Cranial Sphere.
In one land, men’s minds are programmed to only play the Top 40.
   (“The Top 5 is more like it.”)
 
 
 
 

Noted a pater to his progeny:
“Fact: Creativity & originality are for the young:
 fact: if you don’t stay young, you won't wake-up.”
 
 
 
 

Attention City Passengers!
When everything looks the same  –  the bus has made a stop.
    Attention Passengers Suffering Mental Motion Sickness!
     Exercise every opportunity to debark the bus.
    There is never a wrong time to do that which must eventually be done.
 
 
 
 

Just because someone offers to help doesn’t mean they can help.
Consider sang-froid the difficulty you have in helping yourself,
then ponder the possibility of another accomplishing same.
   (If zebras didn’t see to their own appearance, they’d soon look like madras asses.)