Breakfast and Pedro Thinks

In conscience, and for a thousand practical if barely discernible reasons, Pedro felt he could put off taking up his role as protagonist no longer, and so resolved, as so many times before, though earlier in the day, to make a real constructive start. Scratching at the outer recesses of his mind, he pondered a good ten minutes on any specifics there might have been as flesh to his previous resolutions. Pedro drew blanks, it being so early in the day. How does one begin? He thought about Mother Hen, how she left it too late, didn’t seize her chances; limbo’s where she’s lying, half-sleeping. But no, that was all too long ago, and Pedro is young. He hasn’t time for the eyes to look forward, and has nothing to look back on. Where does one begin? At breakfast, perhaps, that can be pinned down, it’s solid enough sometimes. Pedro looked around; what about it? What about breakfast? It’s finished now, and besides it was only toast. And all so early in the day! Best to think afresh, he thought, or not to think at all. Perhaps he could go out walking, not to clear his mind, for no good could come of that, not today, but to meet dog-walkers, shop girls, milkmen, children and tramps, and hold discourse. Things happen when you go out walking, and Pedro had to start somewhere. That’s what he’d do, he’d go out walking. What did Pedro have to say? He had to say something. He’d wait a while, have lunch; he could go out after lunch alright, but not so very early in the day. Have a glass of wine for Christ’s sake!

Heritage On Toast

Why is it that typing is such a beautiful act?
Its because of the interaction of fingers with plastic.
Think of a swampy beach, with steam and mist and strange sounds from a bygone age, with hundreds of strange creatures that havn't walked these lands for millions of years, just think that it is they that once owned the earth. Then they get melted down, the result of eons and pressure, and pysics, and other dark things, they get turned into a mysterious black thick mana. It is history, the world as it was, all mixed into a dangerous soup that should be left deep down in the dark and the cold. Then we as men, barely more than any beast except we have aquired some skill with tools, then we pump this oil up into daylight to satisfy our tool fancies. Some is used to run our cars. Some makes carrier bags. Some is used for injection moulded keyboards. It seems only natural for us to at least pay homage to the profound heritage; so we type.

Discuss frugally.