After much reading of the Romantic poets, one man decided that what he wanted was to have his "soul humanized"; (there was a mix-up down at the corner service station; they thought he said "simonize").
In the trans-linear, revolutionist sense, the lack of conclusions are the proof of their worth.
Sitting up on a grassy "k-noll" (that's how they pronounced it in that part of the City) this one chap gazed off toward the "sun set" (another of their idiomatic turns), and said, "I truly don't believe I'd feel so bad, if I could just be certain that the rest of life is as depressed as I am."
(Only with man are certain potentials perfected. There remain no reliable figures on the suicide rate amongst trees and clouds, and mental health officials offer no stats regarding the percentage of gophers in their practice.)
In another world gone newly, nearly sane, one guy would regularly call himself up just to see how he was doing. He didn't really care; but it really didn't matter since he understood full well who it was making the calls.
A new reader writes
to say that he hates to be
the one to tell us.