Shards of time and curds of wisdom at the bottom of the churn of the splintering intellect.
Someone just dropped off a brown bag on a state highway in Alaska. You have a few cousins still left in the 49th state. The rumors of your great-great-great grandchildren are frolicking in the mist on the eve of Guam being name the 72nd state of the union What are the 21 states that come before it.
Lust lost in a 1970s mustache, along with the salt of a finely cut filet of cod, blushing salmon cheeks and Gaston declaring that it is all a bore. How many stories uncle? Nine-tee!
The clean cut of a razor, somewhere between weapon and civilizing tool of masculine curbing. The curves of the road and the feel of that wheel in the leather glove. How many more pairs of gloves will there be before the grave? Somewhere in Palo Alto a technician is doing the actuarials on this question. It could fill an enormous tablet, two tablets that the Moses of Mountain View might lunge above the chortling scribes of Ampitheatre Parkway. Another search, another strand of mysterious short blond hair that could only come from a male head. This questions cannot be answered because the bumpers on the buggy are so over insured that the truth would make them collapse.
