computation of the spirit: found in the balance.

At the symposium, red clay and cold brew coffees, she scooted about talking to the assemblage.

Just then, a prawn leapt onto the decking boards.

"O!" She blurted.  "What is happening?  What is going on?"

Who among them, or among any, could answer these existential questions?  One's spleen usually directs the course of the thoughts, anyway, and the attention is so easily squandered like the very loosest of pennies from heaven, falling from the air, pelting us like hailstones.

Were we ever equal to the eternal balance, or would it always be somewhat of a shoe-horning into the narrative, uncomfortable, invalid, owing and lacking, in the eternal redress of the great thing we call reality?

"What is this new thing that you have discovered?"

"It's reality."

"Sounds cool.  You gonna have some fun with it?"

"Im gonna tear ass up and down the highway."

In the great computation of the spirit, we are often found a few dimes short, a few pennies this way or that, and utterly out of sync in the grand scheme of things, though something of it might seem scurriously familiar.

Are we all to mimic farm animals like Nebuchednezzar?  To be found wanting in the balance?  Or are we to dine on millet and give our devotion to the great YHWH?

Indeed, I brook not that these malinger, but that we have a kind of running tally of reality, written down.  We never explicit draw a balance, but we are aware of it, just the same, reality seeming, as it were, what has been, what is, and what will be, in place as much as we are, horrifically, as much real as anything else.