The Grand Panjandram
In dark draped light, they set the stage with positively pessimistic preposterous pronouncements:
open-ended, close-minded —
an onslaught of oozing, slimy, backbiting, backstabbing, bamboozling, bath-bubble babble.
Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers but where the heck is the peck that Peter Piper picked?
Blame the government! Blame the moderators! Blame the other politicians!
Blame the prosperous! Blame the lazy, liberal-influenced, moral-obliterating, freeloading nameless discontents! Blame blame, but oh, so blamelessly….
Our media plays politics, shamelessly positioned cross-legged on the tracks of the central station throwing rocks at the podiums of the office seekers and office sitters who madly craft the nightly news peering over the simmering cauldron as they add tortoise ears and bat eyes to their brew.
They know nothing is knowable; the perception of reality is reality: reality is only what is perceived.
I had a little nut-tree, nothing it would bear, but nuts are scattered everywhere along with rampant fear. Predictably, my mind wanders until there is no more silliness to hear while my unsuspecting stomach growls as the choruses of the shameless masses cheer.
I know reality.
It is that thinner-than-thread string that connects one thought to another and one moment to the next.
I know consequences. These are things that happen in direct proportion to lack of diligence.
The end follows the beginning; but also sets up every new beginning. Each possibility is the result of each result.
I will set aside my expectations — of what reality should be — to go along with the ride. It will ultimately lead to the next ride and at some point there will be a chance to get off, walk away and look back at the vast, almost infinite, devastation.
— Zumwalt (2016)
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