You can’t be too kempt these days
We pick up language like a benevolent habit and then drop it on folks like lukewarm potatoes. The habit of language impresses itself on our world where we make believe that it comes from. Language is a subordinate and in solidarity with all the subs of the world, its sonar is most precise in plumbing the depths of power, the warp if not the woof of authority’s bark if not its bite, and even if not, then its bite. Because that’s all that matters.
This, deliberately, broadly referenced thing (to a degree) or stuff (sort of) that comes before this point in the writing right >>>> HERE <<<<< can be elaborated through a series of questions: Why don’t we ever nip things in the flower? I had a day mare in which the dust congealed rather than settled in corners that were spic but not quite span enough. I nipped that in the flower and the results were extraordinary—though not worth describing, except as an on-hand remark or in an equally on-color joke and that color is (always you’ll find) red. And where, other than experience or in language, will you find that to be so, you might ask whether or not you may or can? Where else, but in the nooks of the mind—the nooks, mind you, of the mind, not the crannies. For the last goddamned time, NOT THE CRANNIES! The nook is the thing; the cranny is mere shadowplay, a magic act done with smoke merely. Hear that? Did you hear that. Come here that. Here. Come here. No? Fine. Leave then. I’ve been B-Okay without you and everything has been dory, real dory sans honké without you. Who needs it? When I get all warm and bothered it’s all bees, you see, and fewer and fewer birds. It’s the warming they say, the global warming that does it. But I’m not going to get all plussed about it. I won’t be chalant. I’m going to remain kempt. You can’t be too kempt these days.
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