Ffolkes,
Pinched, grim faces peer through the windows as I wash the dirty feet of the Tupperware solicitors. Leering, jeering, they make their obscene gestures in vain, rather pathetically cheering each other’s futility. Parcels of latent importance linger on the threshold, waiting for delivery, independent and proud of their clean lines and ruler-straight packing tape. In the midst of all the chaotic motion, a small, silver dreidle spins hypnotically, focused and free of the detritus so common to such games as played today. Not for nothing did they salvage their given names, to show to the inspectors, in direct opposition to the rising sun, hopeful of another hour, another day to find Reality…..

Which, apparently, has retreated to the background, not wanting any part of the previous paragraph, a sentiment I can completely understand. That there paragraph is even weirder than usual, even for this space. But, I kind of…