And so I start typing. The world, bless it, continues to revolve in an unbelievable resolute fashion, and we all seem to keep on breathing.
Nuts.
I have, after a short inner turmoil concluded that the groundstate for mankind is abject insanity, and as such needs no help from me.
Nonetheless, here I am, adding a veneer of comment to a thick varnished table upon which sit the mundanities of this world. Oh horror. Oh Joy. That I have lived this long, etc etc
Cynicism? Oh, certainly. My brain, full of its well-earnt lessons, would never allow otherwise.
I guess it is the actions of breathing in and out that allow us the feeble excuse to believe we are eminently qualified to comment upon this world, this life and its beautiful complexities.
With such arrogance perched upon my sullied cranium, I set out to type what my fingers reliably inform me are my mind's thoughts, filtered as they are by two arms and all my experiences.
If that's not a journey's beginning, I don't know what is.
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