Walking along the street, I see a billboard on a bus with a sign reading in bold letters,
"I am not crazy. Maybe crazy like a fox."
"Crazy like, perhaps, pushing you around crazy."
"And enjoying it."
Nevertheless, incipient snows, beautiful, languid, so silently falling like a little breath against a cool pane of glass, a little puff of breath. Peaceful snows against the hatred the shows, nature sitting back like that MemeCat at his plate of veg, while the rest of the world tears at itself, sackcloth and ashes. Uriah gone and the bathing girl conquered, but him unable to square his own sin among honest men. And surely, Ithaca, Parnassus, the Oracle dining on a bowl of worms, offering it to the long-traveled king, and the king relenting, putting up a hand to say no thank you, but getting elbows to the ribs advising him to take of the dull offering.
Only at the foot of the mountain do they notice that all the goats up the slope stood even, so their legs had to be of varying lengths to allow for that.
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