Midmorning

We are all drifters, said a forgotten philosopher who to his dying days begrudged the fact that he will to eternity not have the honor to own the profoundly beautiful quote, ownership being nothing but an illusion he can only marvel at but never truly touch.

It is unliterary to begin a decent story with a dilemma of the possibility of an impossibility, or like the local myth of Bernardo Carpio, to remain etched on the boulders he meant to have separated using nothing but naked force, unmoving, passe, uninteresting, both boulders and myth. And the man named Carpio.

Or walking naked in the house, drinking milk from its carton, letting some of the white liquid drip to the chests and run like midsummer rain. Only to be licked by an irked Cheshire cat.

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