So I sit and I wait for the start top start, as this is another day of work and I am here, present and ready, yet there are other things to do.
Perhaps I shall find a way to tunnel through the walls and slowly make my way elsewhere, but if the ground gets in the way then I just go under it in order to continue my commute of self-design, unless there are other options to pursue.
These always lead to certain questions that I cannot comprehend, but so long as the orange sits on top of the peak whilst students belt the howling through the sky toward the moon, then surely I will be able to resist the temptation of nodding my head more than once, as more than once is far too much when it is only required to nod one’s head once.
Simple things amuse the day.
The day simply amuses the simple things.
It’s all too simple, really.
So now that I’ve got that out of the way, I need to see how many wombats can parachute through a panache on the heads of the hats that are sitting on the chairs.
As they chatter, they surely are not talking about what concerns them for they do not want to discuss what it is that is pressing and important and would much rather find a way to break the tedium, yet the air is so thick it is fog.
That also has a lot to do with temperatures and condensation.
This must be remembered as something that is contributing to the situation at hand.
Perhaps there is nothing to consider at all, and yet they chatter and the shoes laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
There is no TEA to be had at this gathering, and yet one day there will be, so long as the clouds keep on drifting by and watching the earth as it spins itself into another place in time, yet somehow remains static as we perceive static to be.
There is no real way of telling these things, or there is, but now is not the time for the trees are a uprooting and planting themselves into the ocean. Well, its surface. The ocean now has hair in the form of trees and there is no way of telling where the hair will be. Perhaps it has to do with the salinity. There is no way of telling, and yet the only way to tell is by telling these things. One would have to use the art of telling in order to tell. This may involve the use of eyes. Not always your own. Could be someone else’s.
But then again,. perhaps the rooting would appear in the soils and the mountains would rise their lofty peaks and shake them in anger as though they were fists to shake at the heavens. They would, however, remain immobile, for mountains watch the time pass them by.
They watch for eternities.
The time it took to write five-hundred words: 05:57:99
This I’m satisfied with as it embodies the push toward stream-of-consciousness writing I’ve been trying to do a bit better than other rambling posts.
It’s also wonderfully stupid.
Written at work.