Here is a box. Six sides altogether. It's so many arm lengths, centimeters, fingers, toes wide. We agree. Brown cardboard.

I'm having an out-of-box experience. Let's see if I can coax it into something profitable. Home run! We're all together again.

Yeah. Goodbye.

In a nut shell for all the world to see, we're all nuts. The world is nuts. We agree. Except for an experience that can't be packaged, shipped and sold. Let's pretend all is not what it's packed up to be. We were going to have a zero sum discussion, but that was a wil-o'-the-wisp.

I invite everyone to an imaginary karaoke. Sing along in any key. Wave a tentacle. No two mice or men, women or hermaphrodites alike. No library card needed.

Right here where the rusted swing sways, hear that creaking? No violin can play it, long and drawn out, a spider's strand all by itself -- Fellini would die for. Maybe did.

These are the patterns in the key of F. Tiles on a roof at sundown. Certain rocks speak of them, formed in fire, born in storms, which is why no story is needed. Anyone can see it directly -- shades of dusk on that roof, not quite yet a velvet glove.

Nothing is quite so delightful as chucking it all overboard. The news reports, tweets, Facebook revelations so useful and maybe researched, reports of our demise, of cheating, manipulation, forced entry, flooding, fraud disguised as an election circus. Oh, and throw in some icons of literature, fiends, heroes, psychoanalysis as fiction, fiction as reality, existentialism. All this stuff, useful in its time, I'm a nut. Delightful. The world, I dare say, would be a far better place, much different, out-of-the-box. What box?

Here it is anyhow. That's the unstory. It's definitely all of the above, more or less, maybe a butterfly on your nose. I am a jitney ride to nowhere, moving fast or slow, but actually it's wind in the trees. Oh, I know. People want plots and surprises, twists of detective lore, a slathering, red nosed hydramonster in the gas station rest room. And why not get down into the graininess of it? Or bang the drum slightly or loudly or whatever seems best. Ah, my jitney still has bright rows of hand painted white and red drops lining the roof. Where it's going would be a tale. But by now I've forgotten, sorry to spoil it.

Open your own unbox.