I might do little dance, like Thelonious Monk. The blue sky scintillates, my stairway to nowhere a brightly painted jitney.

In youthful days of freshly squeezed algebra there were rivulets of a simple passion that fed a dry creek. Grand relations that satisfied a small niche. Then becoming sociological, or musicological, or of whatever sort that inevitably contradicts itself. Logic is a box of dominoes that grow up to become a chess set.

Indeed, a madman. Wouldn't you like a free gift, perhaps a wilted dandelion? I can be generous when tossing bouquets that have been herded into existence. I toss and spree and glare an interference of waves, resulting in a sandy beach where you can throw caution to the snakes. Sand castles will materialize. Only to be washed away again.

So I dare say you can see how this doesn't all stack up very neatly. But with some courage it will be possible to adjust your preconceptions, go with the flow, and end up with what? A few sentences such as these will scratch your head, perhaps poking around in there. Though I know this won't rival the cotton candy of media whores who just want to sell you something.

There's no price. The stairway to nowhere. Not just that it doesn't make much sense, but ask what you can do for yourself. If I were selling whitewash, somewhere down the road you'd look back and wonder what's really worthwhile. And that would be worth it. Stepping off this flat earth, on the way down, and turtles all the way, is something like Swiss cheese. With no cheese. All the uses of civilization and smiles of close relatives are maintained with toothpaste. And comes right down to it, there is no edge. What we need is big solutions. Right? And what we've got is chaotic attractors pretending to be leaders. Their 15 minutes of red button fame.

Of course this is a rant. Certified. Insane. And I'm singing along, humming a double tinge. I am glowing, like the absorption layer of our galaxy's deep black hole, and knowing what's not there. At least down into the heart of darkness, in the company of sane minds, tents pitched, flaps open, waiting for the sunrise