Some thoughts on a Sutterday afternoon: The Saturday Evening Post, as it is.

That's the juice, between so many agents of change and so many voices offering solutions, the tonic for what ails the modern malaise, in between, drawing my cart to the glade, not in the constable's wagon, but with the constable in my very own wagon, acting not as persecutor for the State, but as some sort of half wit ready to shield me with his own body.

That's juice.

What is all, but gunplay and bragging about our past poop sizes?  Maybe the occassional snapshot of a moment in time: dissipation, cow parts eating of themselves in that kind of righteous complacency, energetic denials, a lattice-work of competing interests, with no one winning out in the end but the elite.

Indeed, who determines, then, who become the elite?

I had determined in my own estimation, that of all in the world, I knew myself best, and I had paroled myself from speaking engagements at the Pine Straw Technology Center.

So I sent the unused, unoccupied portion of my brain.

Just as a pictograph conveys a thousand words, so to, according to Taoism, does the ejaculation of single word propagate a thousand pictures.  How bytes become more significant data entities; its like evening buffet, that if one indulges, he finds circumference for his troubles: he multiplies his radius.  Indeed, after the 38th lady finger sandwich cookie, he finds he sums his age, but not revolutions around the sun, but by his own Marble Cake middle growth rings.