Aristotle once said, crystal clear, “a dry tongue speaks in hesitance, yet a wet tongue speaks in spirals.” At least I think he did. Honestly, I don’t read.

It must have come to me in a waking dream then, these fumbles of faulty fealty. Do you think they mean anything, really? I hope to find their meaning. I hope to wrestle with their import.

Because it’s not the state of my wild wisdom, but the aging of my eyes that keeps me on the edge of soul and self semblance. I cry to the heavens, “What have you in store for we unlucky few?” What have you for our incomplete minds, and foolish fraternities? If not brotherhood, then what manner of congruence?

Maybe that’s all there is to sell. Maybe we’re just drifting between clairvoyance and class. As long as the heart’s in it, we’ll be just fine.

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