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wash cycle XXVI |
Wash Cycle XXVI [abridged] - the memory of potted meat
...WEEEEEEEEEEEE...
In I flew, greeted only by the errant bark of a rotting thought.
"Woof, woof" - 'twas much like this.
Really, when you think about it, there's nothing overly spectacular,
nor noteworthy, about a rotting thought. There are thoughts, ergo, they
rot. Simple really. S-I-M-P-L-E. Simple Simon. Simple Dimple. These are
all things that exist, quite rightfully, too.
"However", I hear you say, "What about the bark, eh? What about that
bloody bark, pal-o?". Well then - at risk of being somewhat banal - I say
this, and this alone... the bark was (and still remains) a collection.
Yes, once more it's Simple. S-I-M-P-L-E. Simple Simon. Simple
Dimple.
To expand, a collection, thus a grouping, of menial tasks. Easy.
Just things brought together (a synthesis) for this simple purpose...woof.
A collection entirely devoid of clutter - no leaves, no stems, no
swords, no fish, no books - just woof. The only. The woof cannot and will not exist beyond the thought.
Aha! The rot caused the woof. Not the woof causing the thought, nor
the thought causing the rot. JUST THE BLOODY ROT!
Herein lies the conundrum. Whence did the rot originate?
And here lays your answer... "We're all fine here, thanks..."