hic ignis: candor obscurandum

Life throws surprises. That’s what people say, and it’s true. To everyone, the traveler hopes with an eye toward self-conscious sky. When he thinks he understands the layout of the game’s board, it turns out there is a second floor, a ground floor, and you can use the underside of each. Also, each rule has an exception which sometimes tastes like blueberries and sometimes like anise, other times like butterflies. You never can know.

That’s when you drink a White Russian at night’s peak and call it a day, the climb at pause, even when there is no distinction between night and day, because borders fractal and eventually blur under magnification and close needling. California becomes Argentina, your dog becomes your arm. The traveler doesn’t currently have a dog, but if he did.

So if people say it and it’s true, then suppose that means people and their overused quips have sense, unblended fruits too often lain latent. Common sense, smoothie sense, corrected. I am deep in crypt and it smells like Kahlua in here.