by iambiguous » Thu Jan 16, 2020 11:04 pm
Douglas Adams
Ballycumber (ba-li-KUM-ber) n. One of the six half-read books lying somewhere in your bed.
Of course, like me, you night call it something else.
I don't go to mythical places with strange men.
Neither do I. Though I insist that the women be strange.
In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn't cope with, and that terrible listlessness which starts to set in at about 2:55, when you know that you've had all the baths you can usefully have that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the papers you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new pruning technique it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four o'clock, and you will enter the long dark teatime of the soul.
Probably a British thing.
Sherlock Holmes observed that once you have eliminated the impossible then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the answer. I, however, do not like to eliminate the impossible.
Well, ever once in a while, I'm forced to.
Lovers of print are simply confusing the plate for the food.
And lovers of zeros and ones...?
A fragrant breeze wandered up from the quiet sea, trailed along the beach, and drifted back to the sea again, wondering where to go next. On a mad impulse it went up to the beach again.
Not much can't be anthropomorphized these days, right?