Mix and Merry, for Mary

You wake, you pick up a book, and the world seems divided into either shiftless transpositions or sedimentary endorsements. You snooze. You wake again, the world a-cry. You figuratively leap to your feet. You practically stand at attention. Garments leap to cling. The surrounding forest is bubbling with anxious conversation. But you, you are like stone. Not quite like stone, but you are quite set on what's next.

Woe to the placater, the converser, the settler of 1's and 2's.

For every dollar spent, a sigh; for every sigh, two dollars spent. For every day a kind of song - an anthem - even if we haven't time to put a name to it. Ah, what was it they used to say. They used to say what made heads nod and we got on with our day's work. Then personal television. See, it is easy to complain and hard not to. Ah, how easy that and so strange this.

I enjoy anecdotes and mythologies, such as how the flower came to be. A king of long ago found himself languishing for lack of a companion and so he invited the daughter of a launch-cart salesman to banquet. Suffering for lack of words, he conceived, in a manner of speaking, an interlude of physical respite, which has come down to us by the name of "flower." Imagine if you took the caloric sum of all botanical activities related to this same endeavor and were somehow able to apply it to a Ferris wheel open to one and all young ladies. Well, I for one am of the opinion that young ladies, and even those who are you might say not so young, all things considered, will save us all.

And that is just one reason why I love Mary, mother of our Lord.

The end.