Christmas on a cracker, it's time for the word game that peasants play in their sleep. This time, though, because it's an HTML format being used, the format will change slightly. Slightly in that the entire block of words will be an entire block of words, with nary a formatting effort being made in between, so really this is going to be ugly, grammatically and to read. I won't blame you for leaving, but hey, nobody ever reads this thing anyway, so it's not like I'm losing anything here. Except my dignity, which really doesn't matter, since all my dignity cares about is soothing itself, and when you get right down to it, that's not much of anything to justify the existence of a thing based upon. A sentence involuted can make up for a coined phrase convoluted, but when they rhyme you mispell; thus, helter skelter, I bustle and welter all over and maybe pell-mell. Speaking of which, the time has come. What time? Any time; the time you roll some dice, and stick them in a snowbank filled with little clouds of steam, the kind a train engine makes when it rolls into Grand Central Station, or maybe one of those other big train stations you always hear about on the news because they're such a nice girl, but really, they're not girls at all, because they're train stations, and that makes life worth living, in a way.

So here's where the promise ends and new life begins. After all, you can only go rambling so long without having to recollect your thoughts a little, and maybe ramble a bit about rambling, so that it's possible to scatter the papers on your desk anew, after shuffling them with a smart tap and informing the world you're at war with Libya, or maybe that guy down the counter who wants to steal your bagel but is settling for shifty glances for the time being. Truly, the bagel is in the hand of the be-eater, who, on balance, has it much better off than the beholder, who can only be in eye-wise on the whole deal, contemplating what could have been had he only signed the deal for that extended warranty on his vacuum cleaner, which now lies slumbering in his closet, waiting for the nearest dust bunny to hop on by.

Which makes very little sense, given the decidedly unhopping nature of dustbunnies, which in my experience tend to bounce more than jump, and really, eddying and rolling is what it's all about in the wide world of dustbunnies. Dustbins - now there's a term you won't hear often outside of England, especially when it's the holiday season as it is now, and people are far more concerned with their dune buggies and centenarian senators and racial slurs and segregation just for the fun of it, which I'm kind of stealing from alternate regions, but hey, it will never see the light of day, since nobody will want to come for the ride that is this rather lengthy and not particularly warped diatribe against everything in particular and nothing to be specific.

Damn, this full sentence business kind of jacks up the whole poeticsoundingness of this situation, though really I'm not giving any thought to meter or iamb or cadence or caesurae or any of the other trappings that poets festoon themselves with when converting parchment to some sort of thing that can be more useful than your lawnmower in the face of a literate stork. Storks, by and large, aren't literate, but boy, can they sure beak it up. Better, perhaps, than you or I, unless your nose is truly heroic, and certainly, you'll still come out second best in the cartilage department, you bet your bottom dollar. You and I are through, like a shoehorn and sandals or maybe that blue chunk of frozen yogurt left to curdle silently in the sunlight outside the mall where the gum spots the sidewalk and the walls are grey and black and many.

Continuing on this particular analogy, buses tend to be darker when it's night time, because the number of lights surrounding them can not be expected to be as possibly bright as that big giant firefly that keeps on giving off heat and light and cancer and boy oh boy are you at risk if you read reader's digest, especially from the eighties, the kind that ask if Germans are trustworthy and then wax eloquent about fingernails and how you can become a hypochondriac if you only look at your hands hard enough. Purple? You've been poisoned with thallium, young man. Beau's lines? Those vertical ones, the striations as black as night but not quite as rutty, and probably not as black either, on balance? Them, they indicate some sort of deficiency. The article was long ago, so perhaps it's memory. Memory of a broken song, the kind that can't quite resolve itself into coherency, but nevertheless stays with you long enough to make you kill that mosquito just before it bites your toe.

That, then, is what the worsening of that other thing is all about. I can't possibly be expected to continue much longer, if only for reasons of natural security and the paper-thin sieve of justice. To the night!