I Suppose There Will Never Be A

Where Do You Get Your Ideas? People Ask. Sometimes They’re At The Bottoms Of Cups Of Tea. Sometimes They’re Lurking In My Shower. Sometimes They’re Waiting Patiently In Glass Cases In Museums.

You Can Say Anything With A Post-it. I’m Not Entirely Sure Why That Is. Maybe The Friendliness Of The Squares Makes It Easier. A Square Is Nicely Compact And Less Intimidating Than A Full Page. And They Come In Cheerful Colors. Non-white Paper Is Kind Of Inherently Festive. Or Maybe Paper That Sticks Feels More Important Than Paper That Can Blow Away. (though You Can Move Them, If You Need To Put Them Somewhere Else.) They Might Not Be As Lasting As Words Carved In Stone, But Post-it Thoughts Will Stay. For Awhile, At Least.

The Circus Arrives Without Warning. No Announcements Precede It. It Is Simply There, When Yesterday It Was Not. Within The Black-and-white Striped Canvas Tents Is An Utterly Unique Experience Full Of Breathtaking Amazements. It Is Called Le Cirque Des Rêves, And It Is Only Open At Night.

At The Center, Where A Cuckoo Bird Would Live In A More Traditional Timepiece, Is The Juggler. Dressed In Harlequin Style With A Grey Mask, He Juggles Shiny Silver Balls That Correspond To Each Hour. As The Clock Chimes, Another Ball Joins The Rest Until At Midnight He Juggles Twelve Balls In A Complex Pattern. After Midnight The Clock Begins Once More To Fold In Upon Itself. The Face Lightens And The Clouds Return. The Number Of Juggled Balls Decreases Until The Juggler Himself Vanishes. By Noon It Is A Clock Again, And No Longer A Dream.

The Circus Looks Abandoned And Empty. But You Think Perhaps You Can Smell Caramel Wafting Through The Evening Breeze, Beneath The Crisp Scent Of The Autumn Leaves. A Subtle Sweetness At The Edges Of The Cold.