Can you follow me, good Nazis all, to theback room with Christine in the data center in Utah to mull over public speech?

"I know where you're going, Mike."

I responded, indifferent, "we all go to the same place eventually, yes."

And if I entered into a game of chance, its like random fate, and not determinism, my little plate of biscuits, the pan still warm, my hair the same color its been since 1999.

And if I could tell the emerald that it is beautiful, would it care?  Would it matter?  Is the thing more or less superlative if I say it? 

"But can you follow me where I'm going?"

Such is the way, Christ himself on his way, at the beginning of his ministry, "at the appointed time" called the fisherman, good worker-bees, men of slight age and experience.  As recorded in Matthew, along the journey, for some seconds, Peter even walked on water, walking towards Jesus; such was the impetus, beyond thought, beyond imagining, even.

You ever work in Utah?

Or, more to the point, you ever go in the back room with Christine?  I was told of a bachanal, a kind of prolonged dismal little orgy of unhappy people achieving some kind of biochemical-induced euphoria, like dropping a brick onto a frog from some height and then watching its death twitches.

Kind of a spiritual awakening, not lip service to the big churches, or a commercial line, but a bona fide thing that co-relates to all the little stupid seemingly random meta data, picking out Fox News stories to quote on my extreme right wing news website.

I saw the manifestation of God, or I saw the manifestation of Christ, in the upturn of plants reaching for the sky, that glorious home.  There was a knotty little rope of vines running horizontal through a bed of wet leaves, just going nowhere, not reaching for sunlight, particularly, and I marked it, the how of it, that was ancillary running, auxilaries, a kind of broad spray of the things, and they were knotting in each other, and other specimens, knotting and braiding and looking like data cable.

"I will make you fishers of men."

Maybe it was fatigue, oxygen deprivation, myself lost in a kind of spiritual kind of mood, too dog tired for much else.

I was reading from the Pocket Reader later, taking in some topical writing on various things, like Productivity, Finance, Data Science, and I come across this thing, this kind of foreboding, something on the order of sincerity of Christine being in the backroom, "oh, if Erin Burnett shows one hair of her ass in the Motherland....".

I said, this was those empty little moments, waiting for the dishwasher or something, letting the streaming service buffer, and all, and you're hearing this distant floppadappapolis, and you're thinking that you're a loyal Nazi, no reason to fear, before the insistent knock on the door, and their parsing free speech if they're not policing it.

Don't like Nazis, but they'd probably have a nationwide health plan for service workers, I wot, especially when so much of the country was submerged into a debt treadmill and otherwise lacking needed services.  A socialist friend of mine observed that if abortion were illegal, there would be a necessity for more robust childcare in the nation, not just leaving them hanging, and I said, what kind of hotel is this anyway, Sam?  Where's the lime that I asked for in my drink?

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A preliminary paraphrasing of "Walden or Life In The Woods".

It had sat, alone, a sort of untouched desolation of it, at various growths and dormancies, for ages.  Vines hanged from the pines, like dea...