Do you do?

Feel like I do.

Strange question. Followed by a stranger demand. Well, yes, Mr. Frampton, I do do. I am, therefore I do. You are. You should know. But I refuse to feel like you do. Piss off. I am that I am and I am not to feel like you do. I do what I am. I do from whence I am and therefore I feel like I do from all that I am and do. Are we clear? Good.

Moving on.

I like to ask strange questions. I also like to give strange answers. Life gets far too boring if we stick to the tried, tired and true pat banality of expectation. (Sorry, Pat, but you're banal.) He who dares not deviate is as dead as a dried douche. You can use that. Add it to your list of idiomatic sayings. Yes. You're welcome.

What really makes this illusion of time worth suffering? It's the expectation of what I can make with this moment. If all I am going to make is the same dry dust I kicked up yesterday than I may as well pack it in.

Right now I am resisting the impulse to turn on the AC. A small concession to novelty, but pleasant all the same. There's a very kind breeze gently licking my face from the open window. When the breeze stops I get the urge to shut the window and turn on the AC. But then comes the breeze. First she touches each leaf, turns each branch over, inspecting the flora, then she reaches in my window, peruses some papers on my desk, brushes my bangs away from my face, kisses my forehead and clears my eyes.

Ah the silent miracles in deviation. Frost took the road less traveled. But the roads diverge more often than you think. And if there is only one road, use the hands that God gave you to build your own.