Writing is like a parlor trick, you know?  I have this one hand, and I open it, and inside is a wee little rabbit.  I wave my hand over it and it is gone.  Did it go to my left hand?

Only I know, and God.

Listen to me:  The world is strange.  I’m 35 and a half years old and I know this.  I see it all around me.  When I was a teenager?  The world made perfect sense!  Everything fit, was in it’s place and was as it should be.  What does that tell you?

TEENAGERS ARE PSYCHO

This blog post was brought to you by the past, inc.  All of your prior experiences have banded together and applied for legal immunity and some possible investment capital and we all just really wanted you to know that we’re still here and we still care.

The End.

Look, I understand what you are saying.  These words look good, sound good, they smell good, Mr. Bingham, but they are devoid of all truth.
Hardly, I say, in my defense.
They are nonsense words, you say.  They only seem as if they are true.
Well, we’ll let God be the judge of that, hometicket, I say to those two figurative fellows.

Look.  I write words all the time.  I like it, it’s what I enjoy doing.  Throw them up, down, all around, the Merry-Go-Round of the modern verbal platform, skidoo.
Vocabulary has changed over time.  @Roflslice is a real word in the dictionary now.  Kids grow up with programmable *brains*.  Don’t give me any of this horseshit that this future is not real.  It’s crazy!  Technology is mindblowing!  Today’s modern times blow our science fiction books from the last twenty years into smithereens!  It’s like reality fired a great big catapult into our hopes and dreams, ladies and gentlemen.
You can’t help it, I can’t help it, the whole world is stuck like that, forever rocked by the echoes of time.  Congratulations, they say.  Let us in, they say, it’s cold.
Yeah, go figure.  They come looking for bread, they find warmth and a glass of wine, too.  That’s called the hospitality, my egos.  That is the divine providence.  The universe is in entropy, too.  Oh, don’t ask me how.

What a cornfield.  That’s what the old gunslinger cattle boys of the Ole Timey West must’ve said to one another.  Wow, what a great carrot you got there, Pilgrim, the farmers would say.  They *farmed* in my eyes.  The Aztecs painted, the Romans… well, when in Rome.
Regardless of all of this hullabaloo and fritter fry, let’s talk turkey, mates.  A fact is a fact and a deal is a deal.  Finito.  End.
Fire up the Mesopotamian monoliths, bros.  Sink deeper and deeper into that lovely sound in the back of your head which only has three words for you.

Death is a theme in Michael’s Ivy.  The choices in life and death are a yoke to a man.  A cool glass of water in an otherwise parched land, or the signal fires of another shore for the man who once had it all.

There are other themes.  It’s not like you are supposed to just sit here with me and let’s have a spooky old time of it.  No, no.  Let’s go to outer space where death isn’t real.  The year is 30,000 AD but everyone’s stopped counting by now.  We’re just beings of pure light, dance with us.