The sight, the roar, you can't understand what they say, but you know it has all the meaning of the universe. Knowledge, it's in both listening and talking. If you listen with the right ear, the flapping of the butterfly will tell you the secrets of Nuclear Physics.. And no, this is not a metaphor, for now. Understand encryption, understand patterns, understand compression.. Dictionaries are the key to knowledge. With any conversation, with any listening, you and the talker both are building the table. Define the words perversely, and that perversion will be the basis for everything. A crackle, and lucidity, always a brief interlude, or perhaps never, depending on which wind you follow, is gone again. Your civilization, another path in the endless rooms in your mind, or in your land. Formal undecidability, or untellability.. We play a game with probability, but how can we tell that we're not just measuring and defining our own sanity, slowly running a finger down the side of our body, until it touches our toes or we grow tired of the act and stop. Oh, look, a point of interest, can philosophy abide an interruption? The smell of soap, not for the hands but for the dishes.. How can you tell what is said, when the eyes are closed and the mind runs wild.. Is the place between the words really worth a visit? A gap in the cloud.. "Are you an artist here? Or a Professor?" "I'm a Rabbi". A glass flies through the air, shatters, and then is whole. When did I tell you that? How can you ever see what you claim to see? It seems impossible. Schau! Es gibt a circus version of a flower.. Complete with a dance troupe, each with a watering device. And again we turn away, our dreams are a whirlwind tour of places a little ways beyond the limits of sanity. Some of us need more help than others to get there, or to keep all of what we got there.

And here's another take on Cyndi Lauper's cover of Hedwig. If you don't understand what I'm saying, sorry, you're on your own. I hope I understand, in retrospect. I suppose that's a risk I'll have to accept when I BLOG half-asleep.

And the epilogue... I lay back, on my newly cleaned apartment floor, with that very song playing.. and feel the memories, of the two that I have loved, of and hear her singing, and even note with humour the spam I recieve... It is a kind of surgery, mental surgery... and you, my other half, offer to take it away from me.. the memories, more of them.. two halves of me... I don't want to lose more to you, my golem, my symbol, bearer of my sigil, but I am so moved, so convinced by your voice, and I know that you really are me, and that you'll keep it safe should I ever want it back.. a wall with hats, a time near the end talking about proving statistical normality with computers, talks about family relations after a phone call from your mother, a joke about another run after having run through the cemetary and a little ways around where you live. I offer these moments to you, and when all three of us got our cat. Your self-hatred takes a new look, chosen, when you see yourself in an unfamiliar light, your hair both a sign of shame and a celebration. And in all honesty, your face, your faces, fade from my memory, the white-out has dried, and all that's left is the photos kept in a box I never open. An irony then, that the lament, the celebration, it's too thin, and can't brave the currents, it keeps on getting lost, and so I walk across the room, letting its leek indeed become legs, hit that duck with the plant. Similie is indeed the ultimate prison. Something you do when you wake up every morning.