Math says two plus two is four, but I know that's only true on every other Thursday when it's raining.

I wish I could cram my wit into that little hole in the electric pencil sharpener and watch it get ground into sharpness while the twisted shreds of reality fall down into that neat little removable box.

The mysterious vent in the ceiling speaks heat to my intently listening bones it says warm warm warm my body says cold cold cold and so there.

If I drink too much coffee will the room spin clockwise in the northern hemisphere and counter-clockwise in the southern hemisphere or will it sit still while I obey the whim of some mad astral barber pole?

Inside, I turn on lights to make the darkness go away but it doesn't go anywhere it's still there it's just invisible.

Outside, the beckoning night whispers its ancient wisdom to the flirtatious fir trees while the moon recites poetry, but is anybody really listening?



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