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A partially visiting uncle told the kid,
"Just putting chemicals in your brain
won't necessarily help prove you're related to the DuPonts."

 

 

About the best the City and Secondary thought can offer by way of any finality to anything are ever shifting junctures that could be called "episodically conclusive."

 

 

A man going for a run doesn't “NEED” a library card.

 

 

And -- a man going for a read doesn't need running shoes.
(But, "Ahh", said the librarian, "He does need feet.")

 

 

It is possible to knit a new intellect; you cannot, however, weld new kidneys; this speaks most well of either the power of organs, or of good vocational training.

 

 

After a lifetime of hearing his City neighbors insist that a man must confront his problems, and "address the issues, address the issues, by gawd," he formed the habit of responding to those graspings and complaints that arose in his own mind by greeting them thusly, "Hey, bitch -- what 'chu want?!" and, "Hey, shithead -- you talkin' to me?"

 

 

Even things that "Don't make sense" can actually make sense.
(Well, hey, come on, it's gotta be so, since everybody “knows”
it's true the other way around.)

 

 

This one little kid would periodically announce, "If you dress up, you'll throw up" and his Ma Ma mused, "When it comes to matters cerebral haute couture, me fears the lad will forever be outfitted polyester, and off-the-rack."

 

 

Just to keep things equitable, every forty-five years this
one planet reverses the order of their alphabet.

 

 

There is that which cannot forget.

 

 

I happened to be chatting with a chap over near one of the City buildings, who told me that after a long life of being hostile toward religion and cynical of people's spiritual rituals, he had, of late, come to a revision of "thought-sorts" and now felt no alarm over such matters as the offering of prayers and supplications to "hoped for deities," for, as he put it, “Such pleas for help from higher forces don't cost anything, don't make your situation any worse, and all things generally considered -- what else you gonna do?”

 

 

Once upon a tale there was a king who had an uncanny grip on the operational dimensions of power; for an instance, right before the commencement of any judicial matter he would execute the judge, the lawyers, all accusers and defendants, and the jury as well. (I believe "uncanny grip" about covers it.)

 

 

A few can still recall stories once told about a telegram
sent to earth which was never delivered;
one version reports the message being,
"If you have to 'figure-it-out'
you still haven't figured it out."

 

 
  J