Much is made in poetry and song about the airy delightfulness and wonder of being. If you are of a nature where your spirit needs to soar while contemplating the sheer marvelousness of your own existence, I'd suggest you not look too closely or too often to the left or right, front or back, as we shimmy, shake and shuffle cheek to jowl here on the ant farm with beepers because there's over seven Billion (with a B) of us and while special is as special does, our mileage may vary.
I spent a not inconsequential amount of time with people earlier in the week who operate in the sincere belief that talking about taking an action, perhaps if done loudly enough, might be considered to have been an action. Except, of course, for the actual doing part-and/or LACK of doing part.
For someone with eyes shut, the two look the same.
And since looking the same and being the same are now, by this logic, identical, we've created a whole new dimension of reality, except, as it turns out when you build a logic tree for the statements supporting it, none of them exist as truths but only as truisms.
We've lost the delicious duality of meaning in the sound of one hand clapping by trading it for the poorly-examined assumption that one hand washes the other, but always in silence. And silence equals assent.
Thanks to Sara LaMothe for provoking this today, though we've never met nor likely ever shall. She did nothing to directly precipitate any of this and yet. Sing a song of sixpence for your sake and take a bottle full of rye. Four and twenty blackbirds in a cake and bake them all in a pie. They told me you missed school today; so what I suggest is just throw them all away.
The Handbags and the gladrags...