Reading Ulysses in Montana #48
Books about rooks and starlit castles flowed across the sands of time and rivers of eternity.
Bishops became orthogonal in the heady days of lost souls, but the queen had other designs aligned with forgotten habits of empty talk show hosts and blithe laundry maidens. The king returned from the pawn shop with the bag of marbles he had lost years prior to the immigration of the nation’s imaginary belly flop into the pool of recondite fools.
Hoops were no match for the knights of tables of any geometry, trigonometry being lightly regarded in those parts of the realm situated thus and thusly. Annihilated vagabonds erupted in praising the prawns of idle youth, and rusty nails railed against the dying of the night.
Rooks and starlit castles emptied their proverbial trunks of mirth, but it was all for naught come judgment day.
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I was kicking myself today for greedily gobbling up your last delicious offerings… thinking I should have paced myself… peckish for more. And lo and behold, a new sumptuous feast appeared the very same day! Is that synchronicity… or something else…?
The king’s recovery of his bag of marbles reminded me of my first wife who donated my briefcase on grounds that I never used it. I used it, I explained, to store my Passport and all other personal documents.
Anyway, this is just a roundabout way to say thanks for your effervescent posts.