Thought Is A Disease Of The Brain.

Sometimes The Whole World Is Mud Luscious And Puddle Wonderful

A Predilection For Genre Fiction Is Symptomatic Of A Kind Of Arrested Development.

Here Was A Flower (the Daisy Reflected) Strangely Like Itself And Yet Utterly Unlike Itself Too. Such A Paradox Has Often Been The Basis For The Most Impassioned Love.

The Forest Stretched On Seemingly Forever With The Most Monotonous Predictability, Each Tree Just Like The Next - Trunk, Branches, Leaves; Trunk, Branches, Leaves. Of Course A Tree Would Have Taken A Different View Of The Matter. We All Tend To See The Way Others Are Alike And How We Differ, And It's Probably Just As Well We Do, Since That Prevents A Great Deal Of Confusion. But Perhaps We Should Remind Ourselves From Time To Time That Ours Is A Very Partial View, And That The World Is Full Of A Great Deal More Variety Than We Ever Manage To Take In.

So, Without Saying Anything To The Others, It Made Its Way To The Farthest Corner Of The Meadow And Began To Toast An Imaginary Muffin. That Was Always The Best Way To Unwind When Things Got To Be Too Much For It.