Still really is that important, the place to put things. My dresser runneth over, but most of my closets are empty. No skeletons in the one that isn't, just the pesky clothes that must hang, never pecked to the bone by crows. No bone, just cloth.
The sections, you see, continue as they were. Factions this way, that. Blind to one another, but the difference. Mostly imagined, the globe spins faster and the breeze has me reaching for the nearest sweater.
I just got a message that said
Yeah, hell has frozen over.
I got a phone call from the lord saying,
Hey boy, get a sweater, right now.
-Modest Mouse
So what's with the men of the cloth? Where do they hang their hats? How's it all woven, anyway? Look hard and see the quality -- this doesn't look like haphazard humanity, but happenstance and circumstance holding hands in synchronicity. It all looks like a tapestry, but I've only learned to view it that way.
And only slightly so, as the chaos stands out so. The absurd life I'm confronted with, trials and tribulations so small we miss them, but I count every one and see that comfort is a distant dream of a coatrack, of finding destiny in strange places.
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