On local levels,
reality is
bursting out
all over.


As the dear father, (an intellectual pipe-fitter), was bundling up his son to be sent off  into a better, more civilized milieu, he handed over the following advisement:  “Now that you will be out with the squires and the gentry, take careful note that by sundry signs and signals, you may properly divine a gentleman’s particular position in the social strata; by the cut of his clothes, by the political beliefs he embraces, by the friends he collects, and by the kind of tattoo he has on his knuckles.”



Just because a Real Revolutionist won’t admit something doesn’t mean that he’ll ever admit it.



(The following report is so pregnant with potential allegory and metaphor, that I am loathe to even make much note thereof, so let it be just every-man-jack-synapse-of-you for yourselves): The gate keeping guardian of one god’s paradise would periodically holler out to the awaiting throng, “Okay, all the women with big thighs in first.”



As it turned out, although both Attila and Tennyson were deeply religious and spiritually committed men, their respective gods not only were not the same, but moreover were just barely twin brothers.