Onward & Wayward

Me: . . .Go back to bed. 

Trying to run out the day, has always been folly, like hoisting full sail in a gale. The darkness keeps closing in no matter how hard we run, or how foolish we are in our rigging arrangements for that matter. It sometimes seems so helpless that you feel like you’ve been dismasted while heading for the rocks off Scilly. In this case however, the words of a wise man ring true: “It’s your own damn fault!” Indeed after those sailing shenanigans you deserve to ram some rocks like Sir Cloudesley. 

You are every thought, and idea, both noble and base alike. Then again nobles have always been in my base. Then again, that sounded kind of base. That however does not debase what I’m trying to say. Everyone knows that the best way to resolve debasement is to just mint more coins anyway, it worked great for the Spaniards, and I’m sure it’ll work well for us too, but I digress. What I’m trying to say you occupy my mind the way Germans occupied Paris. More than happy to exploit its prestige and culture, but would never destroy it outright though under orders to. I hope I'm digressing again. 

Let’s get together you know just you and I. You can pose for photographs which will automatically be antiques, while I write prose, though I’m often not even quite sure that I even know what it is, though I certainly pretend to. We can run round the beautiful fields of Hampshire with such a passion, that we forget we’re still tied to these imperfect bodies. We can spend the afternoon with Malbec, the Argentinean patron saint of our dear kindred romantics scattered about this little sphere we call Earth. When night falls we’ll sing songs of Scotsmen long departed. As we stare at one another’s now blackened faces, and discover just how perfectly conceived our imperfect bodies really are. 

Oh darling, do you remember that summer we spent in Florence? I spent much of my time convincing the pleasant (not peasant, wait, I didn't call them that to their face did I?)  Italian people that I was in fact the Earl of Norwich, much to your chagrin, and that a dear friend of mine was the organist at Norwich Cathedral. Wait, you don't remember? I don't either actually, I don't believe I've ever been to Italy. Who are you again?

This is a saying that I frequently use with my friends. In essence it simply means continue on, even if you don’t know where you’re going. If only for the sake of the adventure. 

This is a pretty cool painting. Frederick the Great was an excellent flutist. You know, on top of turning Prussia into one of the most powerful nations in Europe, writing refutation of Machiavelli, conquering Silesia, and generally pwning noobs.