Routine Feeds The Illusion Of Safety.

Winter Near The Shore Is Cold. The Wind Kicks Up A Salty Mist And Elephant Seals Come To Shore To Trumpet And Rut And Birth Their Pups. Retired People Put Sweaters On Their Lap Dogs And Drag Them Down The Street On Retractable Leashes In A Nightly Parade Of Doggy Humiliation. Surfers Don Their Wetsuits Against The Chill Of Storm Waves And White Sharks Adjust Their Diets To Include Shrink-wrapped Dude-snacks On Fiberglass Crackers.

I Could Stand On My Head And Flick The Bean Right There At The Dinner Table And My Mom Would Be All, "honey, Christmas Is Family Time, We Should Be Together" And Make Me Finish In Front Of Everyone.

Pondering Is A Little Like Considering And A Little Like Thinking, But Looser. To Ponder, One Must Let The Facts Roll Around The Rim Of The Mind's Roulette Wheel, Coming To Settle In Whichever Slot They Feed Pulled To.

I've Won Satan's Lottery.

It's Like Time Travel Only, You Know, Slower.