Sunday

If you took out my brain and spray painted it white and punted it up into the air, with enough hang time, it would look a little like a cloud floating up there, but then it would drink down on you like a ton of brick flavored admonishments. My brain thinks I know somethin – something separate – like down in my spinal cord there is some hairy goo clog of cognizance.

There is good news about thoughts and thinking, good news for short thought thinkers: There are still many pairs of words you can put together and put quotation marks around and search at google - that will bring you nothing back. In other words: There are still thoughts conveyable by two words that have not already been thought and keyed in and published on the net. Fertile soil.

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