All Along the Borders

Just after noon, while passing through that area over in the City park that seems now irreversibly home-steaded by would-be public speakers and social commentators, I was privy to one man unrolling his own private soap box, triumphantly surmounting same, and with several introductory, though off-the-rack gestures, declared as follows to the ad hoc assembly, “Thank you for this important opportunity; what I wish to say is this:  The pump that nourishes the creative juices of man runs off the sweat of the chemical brow of electricity.”  And a piece of an officer standing next to me said, “That reminds me…”

 

Report from the Front:
All along the bustling borders,
forever were men’s minds glued.

 

A gentleman with several initials to his name, faxed me this overnight message, he says, “If I were to abandon my regular ‘Pro-and/or-Con’ thinking then what would I have left to think about?”  (Why Sir, actually for the first time – any and every thing.)

 

Over in a nearby City, the bureaucrats decided to license metaphysical poets, but it didn’t work out.  If you can’t figure out why – you’re one of them.

 

Anything that can happen in a 3-D world
will be three dimensional; men may dream
of it being more, or being less, but it will
still occur three dimensionally.

J.

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