Tale of the Cooper's Daughters

"Erastus," the man called. "Erastus," he said a second time notably louder. "What are you doing?"
"Why I'm creating of course."
"Out of what exactly?"
"Well, they keep giving me newspapers, and leaving about read books. We mustn't let the illustrations go to waste."

Erastus had taken to making collages out of paper. Paper from books, magazines, newspapers, shaping them into something reminiscent of old cosmological and astrological maps. Strange creatures littered a Frankenstein night sky pieced together haphazardly.

"Why do you order them like that?"
"It comes to me."

The man stood over Erastus, breathing deeply, as if he might inhale whatever it was that had been "coming to Erastus" so he might better understand. Erastus sat in the center of a pile of cut out papers lying around him like an oriental fan. The man stood over his shoulder watching with a mix of contemplation and interest.

"And what exactly is going on in this picture?"
"Well I don't very well know, it's not done yet."
"Yes but you have an idea of where you're going."
"I most certainly do not. I said it comes to me, not that it has come to me."
"True," the man thought. "Well then do you think you see the whole picture yet?" he asked.
"How can I see it if it's not done yet?"
The man sighed out of irritation.
"Erastus are you ready to have our daily talk?"
"If we must, I would hope to continue my work while we do it though."
"That's fine. How are you doing today?"
"I'm doing it well."
"Doing what?"
"Art."
"How are you feeling I mean?"
"Creative."
The man sighed yet again.

The floor is rolling in newspapers, cut out figures, small excerpts, colored paper, and peoples' pictures. It's as if Erastus had searched through every man and woman's room and brought back all their tokens of memory. He had taken to cutting out pictures from advertisements, letters, and pasting them around a giant canvas he had made from other papers. Sometimes he would paste over the paper, other times he used what was already there as a base and used it in the work. Several sections had grown to five layers, with bits cut out here and there to make some overarching image using the different levels, others remained untouched. It appeared chaotic, but had an underlining structure, though the man was unsure if Erastus was consciously aware of it.

"Why do you do this Erastus?"
"It pleases me."
"How does it do that?"
"I suppose I think I've already seen everything the world has to offer. Art seems the only way to see something new or exciting."
"So you do it to feel excited."
"No, I said it makes me excited."
"Then why do you do it?"
"Because it pleases me. Are we going to talk like this all day?"
"I apologize, I'm just trying to talk to you in a way we can understand one another."
"Fine," he mumbled, while snapping off a lion. He placed them next to an ox and an eagle.
"Can we start over?" the man asked, the pen's tip pointed at Erastus as if asking too.
"Fine," he said while cutting out a man.
"Ok then. How are you?"
"I want to tell you a story."
"Very well then, begin when you are ready."

here once lived a cooper in a small German town. He worked from sun up to sun down making fine barrels for ales and drinks from all the sturdiest woods in the land. He raised three beautiful daughters who each were exceptional at one craft.

heir house had a small kitchen, only large enough for a four person table, lined with handmade wooden chairs. There was a cabinet on one end of the kitchen, and a long, thin table on the other that had supported seven corked jars since before the girls were born. Within each jar there were seven fireflies. Each jar contained a different subspecies known only to the cooper, distinguished according to the color they glowed. And "My! How lustrous they glow!" he would say to the girls every night before bed.

The beauty of the girls was renown for many villages, and when they came of age many suitors came seeking out their beauty. To protect them the cooper took to playing a game with the suitors. He told them that if any man could tell him which jar of his contained the green glowing fireflies without putting them in the dark, that he would give that man any of his daughters' hands in marriage. But if the suitor guessed wrong, then he was charged to fill as many barrels with the finest ale that the cooper could make in one night.

Now a visitor came one day to court one of the girls. He was a tall, lean man, with upright stature and the air of fair raising about him. He had heard the townsfolk speak of the girls' beauty, and had ventured to see it for himself. When he arrived the cooper requested the girls make him dinner. After the meal they sat conversing until the cooper at last broached the subject, offering the man his consent to marry any of his daughters, if the man could tell the cooper which of his jars contained the fireflies which glowed green like emeralds. The man asked to observe the fireflies for himself, to which the cooper motioned towards the jars with a smile. Some time had passed and the girls were beginning to yawn with the night. The man noted the impatience in the cooper so he quickly chose one jar which had the healthiest looking fireflies and pointed proudly, "Here. This one. Surely it contains those which glow green, for they must be the pride of your collection. And these here are the largest of the bunch."

"No," said the cooper smiling. So the man humbly accepted his loss and agreed to fill as many barrels as the cooper could make in one night. The man was given lodging for the night. In the morning he arose to see the cooper still up, putting the finishing touch on his third barrel.
"You are a fine father, and an even better cooper. I'll see my end of the bargain and have these filled to your specifications."
"You do me much honor, and I respect a man who is his word. Anytime you wish to try your luck again at one of my daughters' hands in marriage you are welcome to."
"Thank you for your kindness and hospitality; I shan't forget it."

So many suitors tried their hand, and none ever guessed right. This one guessed on the speed of their flying, that one on the hue of their shell, another on their behavior, and many based on the placement of the jar. Until one dusk the first suitor returned with the same upright stature and determination in his walk. The cooper greeted him with kind familiarity and led him back into the home. The three daughters stood on alternating stairs, each watching from the corner shadow as the two men spoke. The young man ate with the family that night, had a wonderful time with them all, and left without guessing which jar had the green light fireflies, nor mentioning it.

And this went on for months. He came from a day's travel just to sit with them for one night. Till at last he had built lasting relationships with all three of the elegant ladies. The youngest loved him so that she offered to tell him the father's trick if he gave his word that he would choose her. The oldest loved him so but she respected her father's wishes, so that she said she would wait for as long as it took for him to guess the right jar. The middle daughter loved him so that she enjoyed his company and conversing and laughing with him that she never mentioned the father's game. So the man fell in love with the middle and they were wed, and lived happily ever after.

"Snip" went Erastus' scissors. He stared at the newspapers around him for a moment before picking up a picture of earth and setting it upon some animal shoulders.

The man wrote down some comments on his paper before looking back down at Erastus.
"Why didn't the man have to guess the right jar?"
"Why should he have had to?"
"Because the father made it clear he would give his assent to those who guessed it."
"Yes."
"Well don't you see the disconnect in the story?"
"No."

Scribbling and snipping was all that was heard for some time. Sunbeams shot past bars onto Erastus' work. The paper seemed to be the only living thing in the room, the only thing with intent and color and work and joy.

Erastus suddenly cut the silence, "The metaphor is dead."
"What metaphor?" the man's eyebrow lifted inquisitively.
"All of them."
"What makes you say that?"
"Stories too."
"And why do you think this Erastus?"
"Dead," Erastus murmured with a large slice on the belly side of a whale.
"Erastus, what do you think about your story?"
"It's fine."
"Why doesn't the suitor need to guess the jar?"
"Because the cooper never said it was the only way he'd give assent."
"And what does that mean for you?"
"It means my path might just be fine."
"What path is that?"
"Here."
"Do you enjoy being in this room all day?" the man confronted Erastus.
"Do you enjoy trying to make me pick a jar?" Erastus fired back.
"So I am the cooper then? And who are you? The suitor? What of the daughters - who are they?" the man questioned with a hint of anger.
"I don't know. It comes to me, I didn't say it had come."
"What are you really doing with this paper collage Erastus?"
Erastus sat quietly. A smile cracked his lips, slow to open, but quick to finish once it had begun.
"Fine. It's time for your shot anyways, then it's back to sleep with you."
"That's fine. The metaphor lives in my dreams anyway."
"You won't be allowed to leave until you get better Erastus. You know that don't you?"
"Doc, you have to talk to me, you don't have a choice. Even if I'm asleep my project is still here, and my story lives on in you."

A nurse entered the room flicking a needle. The man motioned for her to give the shot. Erastus sat staring at the man as his arm was pumped full of some sedative.

"Goodbye Erastus," the man said sorrowfully. Regret could be heard in his tone, regret to help or understand.
"I'll see you later Doc. Same time? Same place?" Erastus chuckled softly and fell to sleep.

Tale of the Tristitia Lunaflorum

A metal door opens.
"Ahem," echoes off white walls.
"Speak first, introductions later," came response.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Someone who wishes to speak to me."
"Do you know why?"
"If I knew we'd have already had this conversation."
"This one is going to be a handful," the entering man grumbles.
Once seated, he opens his briefcase with a waving motion from each of his fingers, pulling out a handful of papers. Eyes focused on writing, the two sit in silence for a moment.
"Name?" the guest asks.
"Does it matter?" comes the reply.
"Only if you want to talk to me," the guest calmly retorts, eyes ever steady on his paper.
"Erastus," if you insist.
"Good. Now you may tell me whatever story you have for me. I'm all ears."

"My story begins with a large illuminated letter, so as you will know it is the light of the world, and a literary classic."
"Surely."

nce upon a time, the moon hung high. He was guardian of the night, watcher of the earth, and he loved to sprinkle light and dew upon all of earth while the sun slept.

ne particular season he took special interest in a flower. It bloomed by night with many shining silver petals, each laden with beads of water provided by its delicate stem. The Latin name for it was tristitia lunaflorum and it was the most lovely thing that the moon had ever shone upon.

He enjoyed lathering the flower in moonlight, watching it blossom when his eye turned upon it. And as the nights progressed, so did his love for the flower, so much that every night he turned more and more of himself towards it, so that at last he might be fully turned, and give the flower all the light he had to offer. This phase lasted many days, the moon growing fuller, the flower growing more beauteous. The two would sing songs to one another and found company with one another.

This lasts until the day of the eclipse. The moon disappears when it moves in the wrong direction and so shadow consumes it. The flower bows down, unable to open by night, thus it begins to wilt, resting solemnly in its own petals. The stem still tries to feed the flower water, but it only succeeds in dripping out of the closed petals. So the flower sat weeping, unable to open, and the moon could not escape from shadow."

"And what of the moon and the flower and the sun? The eclipse, the water? What are these to you?"
"Is it customary where you come from to interrupt a man mid-story?"
"Well, the reason I ask is because I am here to-"
"I very well know what you think you are here to do. If you would let me finish then you might be able to do it."
"Very well then. I apologize."
"Ahem."

So went darkness for sometime. Until at last a traveling merchant came along the flower's path, having guided his ox and cart towards a stream for water, he took to rest.
"Please sir, have mercy on me," wept the flower.
The man having never seen such a thing bowed down to listen more closely to the flower.
"What manner of thing is this? That a flower should talk?" he said.
"I am but a poor flower that needs moonlight to blossom. If you should be so kind as to bring the moon back, I might once again open. If you would do this for me, that I might see the moon once again I will reward you greatly."
"And how is this?" replied the peasant.
"I am a tristitia lunaflorum," said the flower, "in all the land in all the kingdoms you will not find another of my kind. Whatever woman you should give me to, they will be taken aback by my glory, and will take your hand in marriage for such an offering as I."
"So it shall be done," said the peasant, and went his way.

The peasant is gone for many a day, and the flower grew bold and took to trying to blossom by day. She took to opening at dawn, where light is low and the mist of the wood is still heavy. The sun rising every morning cast its rays around tree and shrub, and the two would converse until, from fear of heat, the flower would close again.

After many a day the flower had become accustomed to the light, and adapted to blossoming in full at noon. However, she ventured to open for too long and was burned. Determined to try again she closed and waited for the next day.

She enjoyed the sun's company by this time and had forgotten completely about the moon and the peasant she had sent to do her bidding. On one particularly bright day when she had just taken to opening and going through her ritual greeting to the sun, the peasant returned with his same ox with cart in tow.
"Grace be unto you little flower, and peace," the peasant greeted her.
"What word do you bring of the moon?" she cried.
"He has found his way out of shadow, and shall return tonight."
So the flower waited till night.

That night she rose from slumber and dew glistened on every leaf, waiting intently, watching the moon as she rose. The moon shone full but the flower had forgotten how to bloom by moonlight. She stood only half full and she sorrowed that she could not open fully.
"It is ok little flower. You can learn to open again in time," whispered the moon.
"And if I do not wish to learn?" snapped the flower.
"I do not understand, for are you not moonflower by nature?"
But she said naught, so the two sat quietly until dawn.

At last sun peeled back the gown of night to reveal his shining form, and the flower rose again. The moon still sat out, awaiting his daily slumber, when the flower looked back at him,
"I do not wish to blossom by night anymore. From henceforth I shall be a sunflower."
"So be it," whispered the moon, and receded into the hidden night.

The flower was burned by the sun that day, and wilted away several petals. She closed for fear of death, and waited for night. When the moon rose she cried out for his light, but the moon had turned away from the flower. Closed to the light that the moon once had shone upon the hill, the flower looked up to but the dark side of the moon.

But when the night comes, and the moon sits idle, back turned to that side of the world, the moon softly whispers to the clouds, blackened and hidden by the sheets of night, to rain on the flower by day, so that it might find restoration--so that it might become whatever kind of flower it wishes to be.

"Fairytalesque," said the guest.
"Were there any fairies?" asked Erastus.
"Certainly not, but what I mea-"
"Was there a tale?"
"You know what I meant,"
"I most certainly do not."
"Must we play these games?"
"You can't do your job if you look at it like that."
"It's not just a job, I take sincere interest in the people I work with."
"Why is that? Because you want to fix us? With what? What makes you think you're so enlightened that you're going to get rid of this illness?"
"I do not look at you that way. Now seriously, calm down. I just want to ask you about your story. It's quite beautiful. And to be honest I rather enjoyed it."
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"Fine."

A guard opens the white steel door, looks first to Erastus, then speaks to the man, telling him he has thirty minutes remaining today. The man nods in ascension and awaits for the door to close behind him before continuing.

"Ok then. Let me ask you something, where did you hear this story?"
"I hear it every night, when I look out of the window, when I dream, when I write, when I think, when I pray, when I eat my lunch for fuck's sake--it's everywhere."
"Alright. Umm, how does this story appeal to you? What emotions occur when you tell it? How does it make you feel?"
"How does it make me feel?
"My my Doc, aren't we a little bit slower than the rest?"
"Please answer the question."
"Why? So you can get to the root of the feeling? So you can point out the obvious and make me think we're going somewhere other than circles? The story makes me feel something and whatever that something is you'll trace back to the story. You don't get it Doc."
"And what is it that I don't get?"
"Feelin' ain't the problem, it's just an effect. All that training and you haven't figured that one out yet?"
"So then why don't you tell me what the problem is? Perhaps I missed the true meaning of your story. What is it that I was supposed to have learned? What did you learn from it?"
"Do your job much?"
"What do you mean?"
"Isn't it you who's supposed to be analyzing me?"
"I'm just having a conversation with you. Whatever you want to talk about is why I'm here."
"Oh good, 'cause for a second there I thought it was about you asking me questions rather than me talking about what I wanted to talk about."
"No need to be hostile. We'll talk about whatever you want."
"Fine. What did you think about my story Doc?"
"I thought it was lovely, reminded me of my childhood."
"Which part?"
"All of it. I told you it was like a fairytale. Reminds me of those my mother used to read me before bed."
"Ah, now why do you suppose that is?"
"Fairytales appeal to the child's imagination. When we are young we are fascinated by possibility, but when we are older we are only concerned with what is real."
"Says the man whose job it is to deal with my imagination."
"It's my job to help you see through it."
"And how are you going to do that until you see it?"
"I asked you the meaning of it."
"And I told you I'm not doing your job for you."
"You're not trying to talk to me."
"And neither are you to me."
"Our time together is running out Erastus. I can see you're far too upset today to talk. We'll have to finish this tomorrow."

So the man folded up his papers and centered them in his briefcase, both thumbs outstretched, clasping the thing shut.
"Tomorrow" Erastus echoed.
Getting up from the chair, the guard opened the door, and the man went to leave. With one foot through the door, he turned back to Erastus,
"How does the story end?"
"I told you the ending."
"No you didn't. The conflict wasn't with the moon nor the sun but with the flower."
"Some say the peasant picks the flower but the princess he presents the flower to is disgusted by it and throws it down in the mud. The man tries to pick it up but a carriage pulled by horses stomps it into the ground."
"And others?"
"That the rain brings life, and when the flower is plucked the peasant becomes king of a mighty kingdom. His queen sets the flower in a crystal vase outside her balcony, where every night she blooms until the moon slowly waxes back to full."
"And which do you believe?"
"I don't know Doc, it's just a story."
"Till tomorrow then."
"So be it."

Erastus could hear the thick plopping of the man's shoes as they touched tile floor. So he turned his back to the door and the whole conversation that had just taken place. Looking through the window, outside sat a small hill, with a meek flower, directly under the moon. He hoped night would soon fall. Perhaps then, with the nightly crying and shrieking of his neighbors, he might be able to ignore the story until morning.

How to Pack a Bag Properly

One can pack a bag in any way they so wish. They can pack it into something else or something into it, whatever they might understand to pack a bag to mean. I use it to be the latter, but even then one can pack it anyway they so choose. They can stuff it with tangerines and sheet music for all I care. But there is a way to properly pack it based on intent.

I dared to begin packing the night before. How punctual of me. To pack the night before you began to pack you must first set about analyzing your intentions and the ends of what it is you wish to pack. Once one does this it becomes quite easy to "pack the night before." Now, the average man packs all out of nonsense, just look here:

I intend on working. I should pack shorts and shirts and shoes and so on. Work requires protection of the body in case of accident. I want to avoid the possibility of getting hurt while working, so I take something that will lower the probability of it (e.g. close-toed shoes, a hard hat, long pants, etcetera).

The accident is an accidental quality. He begins saying his intent is work, but ends with intent to prevent accidents. Then he says he wishes to avoid the possibility of being hurt but ends by acting to reduce probability. No, no, no, this just won't do at all. We must say what we mean or shut up. Nothing can be done for such a man, for he speaks in jibberish, nothing more than a series of unconnected assertions. Now! --if he had said:

I intend on working. I should pack forearms and fists and tools and laborers and &c. in this bag. There is a possibility of getting hurt but one cannot avoid possibility, unless of course I bring some tool to make the possible impossible. If I cannot find my tool for this (it has been missing for some time) then I should put a damper on probability's relationship with possibility. Those two are inseparable (and have been for some time), but at least one might prevent probability from taking possibility out for a stroll in the park (at least for some time).

If a man had told me this I would much better understand him, applaud him for such excellent and consistent packing, compliment him on his ability to express his intent, and be slightly amused. Of course I can only know this is what "he" was trying to say because I am the man, and I know my intent. For others I'm stuck at the jibberish stage and can do nothing more for them but to look curious and smile from time to time as they talk.

Unpacking is an entirely different issue. But if one wishes to unpack like Mary Poppins, one would need only to cultivate probability and possibility's relationship, rather than wreck it.

This ends How to Pack a Bag Properly

That Lot

The night smells of liquor and oil and heat and vice. The signs make the bartender out to be a saint, glowing with neon aura, looking to give to those in need. Those too gluttonous, too prideful, too lustful, too much disgust to fit into their own skins by daylight. They turn to excess by night, dawning the cloak of social life so that they might have excuse for such behavior. Vivid eyes and exaggerated gestures give their rotting flesh the appearance of vibrant life.

Outside these monoliths to pleasure stand men who will sleep on benches, in the small green spaces that litter the town's grid. These men who are broken in spirit, beaten by circumstances or their own inaction, either way their only wish can be summed up as otherwise or else or not this. Whatever the case, I see now and not their past. When they ask for change, tears swell in their eyes from defeat, humiliation, regret and sorrow.

But they will go unnoticed. A multitude pass them by willfully ignorant of their state or with some assumption they are all the same - and by same they mean deadbeats. This man with not but a flannel and jeans and a toboggan, in a night of subfreezing temperatures. What would go towards your night of the living dead you could use to bring someone back to life.

The whole town wreaks of bad decisions, of moral corrosion, of children dressed up in adults' clothing. I imagine each as toddlers, caught by a parent arriving home, found in the closet, dressing up like mother or father. Now is the same, except their will has turned to self-destruction. It's merely a "good" time or time for "friendship" or a "necessary" release of stress, whatever they mean by such things. One might question them, but I've given up such endeavors, for my desire to know someone is always greeted as being too zealous or strange. There are indubitably those living who walk amongst the dead, and I have been amongst both before, so I do not discount all, but merely a certain lot. You know, "that lot."

They never give sufficient meanings for their words, but the more I press in, the more disturbed they become. Hatred for me grows heavier with every word and at the end of my point I'll smile. They'll interpret my smile as "checkmate" though I meant no such thing. Empty conversations, empty nights, empty acquaintances, empty, empty, empty. It's as if I took to elaborately describing the most sensational, spectacular, bright, vivacious, aquamarine hondlebark. "Well I don't know what it means, but I do mean it," is how I'll reformulate their argument for clarity. At this realization they'll become visibly irritated. Such discussions are much too real for a night of "fun." One must never give into reality when trying to relieve stress, for this is escapism, and what is that but trying to think of things as otherwise. But in all the possibilities in all the worlds, why choose this, the one you live by tonight?

I tire of overgrown children. No moral responsibility for actions, no responsibility for any actions. They wish for freedom but know not how to use it. They wish for respect but disrespect themselves through their actions. They justify each by the other and come to the most absurd of conclusions, which one cannot ween them from since they've grown so attached to nonsense that reason is something foreign to them. They greet reason as an enemy and unknowingly pick it up to slay this, their opponent. "This should be amusing," I'll think, and initiate my first line of questioning. They are closer to animals in what they seek, and closer to plants in their familiarity with reason.

Help me Lord, for I am apt to shut off to the lot of them. Even now I take to judging, which has me disgusted with myself. But that's the difference isn't it? I am disgusted because I see reasons for such, but those don't see them, and this is what accounts for their lack of civility and self-control. I have not mastered such things, but at least I seek to. If my prayer could be counted as one of the righteous, put a desire for the divine in their thoughts and hearts, otherwise they should not learn until experience has bested them. For they cry out to make their own decisions and to experience things themselves rather than listen to others, but one day experience's baggage will come to fill up every closet and nook and will have to be shoved under beds and hidden in pantries. They will hold to the lesson, but fear the memories should escape their hiding places, and bring back the shame with them. They should not wish to forget what they have learned but wish to put away the teacher altogether. But how does one remember the effect without the cause? We might store it away where it is unseen, but it is still there, clawing at the back of your mind, till death do you part.

But enough of them. I tire of being tired of them, and my cheerios are finished.

Literary Drivel

It's 3:10 and I cannot sleep. Coffee makes for bad night caps, and for some reason the smell reminds me of the taste of cigarettes. I conceive of the tar in my lungs from yester-year's smokes creeping up onto tongue's tip, like the blob from a bad 1950's science fiction movie. I'm unsure of its intent, either to consume every living thing, or give me bad breath, either way it's a nuisance.

I cannot tell how I am "doing" as they say.
If I were to answer the question, "How are you doing?"
I might respond, "I am doing it well enough."
"Doing what?" one might ask.
"Typing," I would whisper, eyebrows lifted so as to make the question's absurdity apparent.

I cannot tell what sort of tone I am writing in; I would imagine this is how I would speak if I were a writer. Alas, I am not a writer, and if I were, I said I wouldn't tell what tone I'm writing in. Whatever it is, it is different, refreshing in the most literal sense, for it is not fresh, but is a renewal of something; it reminds me of how much I loved literature in middle school...and most of high school...throw in a smidge of college.

I imagine tonight I might write of many things: of the dances that stars perform on moonless nights, the dreams that drift about ocean depths, friends who are like sculptors, the appearance and smell and taste and color of my dinner, divine paradoxes, brutal truths sprinkled with hope, and all manner of things that would be spread around with ink like a horrible puzzle with pieces from another box. I imagine all sorts of things, but none ever occur. Perhaps I live looking to some exciting future in my imagination, but the part of me attached to reality expects sheer boredom from everyone and everything. I wonder where such a part exists...hmm. What nonsense.

I am, for lack of a better word, bored. And now even my imagination has become completely internalized, rarely shared, rarely let out to play. As a result it is a slothful creature, only responding to increasing amounts of ridiculous conditions or overt stimulation from others. My boredom however prevents the latter, and the former is by its nature, rare.

Perhaps I am perpetually operating in some kind of defense mechanism, years of harnessing and perfecting it, down to a "science" as we say -- as if I was out to disprove myself. What a strange saying, when we are apt to use it in conditions where we do not wish to be disproved. Indeed, having things down to a science implies a certain level of comfort in one's own ways, whereas science seeks to refute knowledge claims so that it might know what is not. Should I wish to test the equivocal definitions of this word I wonder what sense of "science" I might use to discern such a thing? I should have to run the test before I should be able to run it so that I might run it in order to run it. See?

Ahh, my tone has yet changed again. There is something different in it, though I know not when or how or why it changed. I might guess but I'd rather not, this is all too amusing for me. Leave it in the subconscious, willingly ignore it, then try to guess it without trying to access it. It's all very much like playing a game of chess with yourself, in which you pretend not to know what that rapscallion across the table is thinking or working on, yet you try to determine what it might be from his or her moves. The game itself becomes contained inside another game. And this second game is what intrigues me.

It's 3:55 and my concept of time is worse than normal. Usually night and day have no distinction other than visible light. I could not tell you if it be closer to noon or supper at most times of the day, though I could tell you some considerable amount of time had passed since breakfast. With caffeine late nights and early mornings become one. Of course they always were one, I mean that with caffeine I actually start addressing them truthfully, rather than making the distinction between them for convenience's sake. Yet another strange phrase, how is it that we are looking out for the benefit of convenience? For the "sake of convenience" would make more sense, though I do not know if sounding like something makes more sense is a good enough reason to change one's language in everyday speech. We have our idioms, and they seem to get us by enough, so we should stick to them, at least for the sake of convenience.

And now I turn to you. You who read this. Whoever you are, for whatever reason: whether to find something funny or interesting or in hopes you'll be mentioned or to find something out about myself. Nothing here is not nonsense. These are silly games I play to lull myself to sleep about things I cannot speak to other people, for while other people talk about weather, sports, news, and other drivel, I don't share this in common with my fellow man. I have nothing to speak about with many of you. I can speak in terms of logic, and I can make jokes to lighten the mood, but neither nor both can serve me at all times of the day. So it should suffice to lock up my drivel until I can expel it here, ready for the waste management center I call dreamland.

I type on the brink of that place. My hands seem miles away now. My vision recedes deeper into my skull, preparing for the turning to the inside to analyze what lies underneath all this bone and marrow and blood. Bleh.

It's 4:21 and I'm letting my imagination take over for a bit now, and let that part of me that touches reality rest.