Recent preoccupation with Saints, Walking Stewart, the Rabbit of Usk, and a harping on about stubbornness of winter, is obviously one more element in the slow decline occurring in the space behind a deteriorating apparatus of sight and between increasingly inept labyrinths of hearing. Who knew while in the more natural state of crawling around on all fours, throwing up and cooing, that one day I'd make the mistake of standing up, grow at least tall enough to reach the lower shelves and door handles, then eventually start to shrink as various parts start to race each other toward Anatomical Palsy and the Ebbing Pox.
Probably of all things most frustrating, it's the community that resides somewhere in that part where my head joins its neck. Day and night this community will chatter on in that high pitched way, and I find myself wishful around The Artist's recently acquired collection of pointed bits of metal. The more reasonable alternative to so direct and radical an action against this community is to try to think of them as happy, untroubled by discord and political clash, just merrily about their business. This way, I might come to accept that pretty much everything I do to occupy time not consumed by the demands of a digestive tract that connects the salivating gland to my rectum, has no better function than to distract what remains of me from the presence of these jolly little fellows.