And the band played on...and on...and on...

It seems that 27 + 1 day is just the same as 27, which was just the same as 26 + 365 (leap year). Rest assured, when something changes, you'll hear about it here. Unless the change is the last change, in which case, rest assured, you WON'T hear about it here.

Later today: The daily round-up of my section of Blogistan (from which I intend to secede soon, vive la revolution!!!), by Mao Tze Sha Ne. Which is where I take all posts from blogs I monitor written today, throw them into a Markov Chain generator, throw them into Chinese and back to English via dictionary.com's translator (oh, where oh where did bablefish go, I did so love it so!). Thanks to Gempires for that idea!!! Could be very funny or very strange or neither.

And on that note, in honour of random encounters via the ether, here is a poem I wrote on the train this morning, ostensibly as I only catch the train every so often and I have lost my Buddhist fortitude when it comes to the train's innanity and sheer humanity. I call it "Ode to a small lump of lint I found in my sub-conscious":

I used to look over my shoulder, now I never look back.

I used to battle depression with anger and agression,

Now I battle depression with friendship and compassion.

There was a time when I turned my back on the world,

Caring only for things that my own life unfurled.

Now I welcome every person, every experience, everything,

Whether they are good, bad or ugly, sad, happy or boring,

Pleasant, painful, worthwhile, worthless, fascinating or annoying.

I treat them all like I would a long forgotten friend,

With surprise and joy for the experience of learning.

Now I am, at times, guilty of falling into old ways,

For a couple of minutes, few hours or even days.

But when darkness descends, and I have lost all my friends,

I remember my new philosophies and the painfullness ends.

It never goes away, not completely, anyway.

But it helps me enjoy life in every breath for another day.

Which just goes to show a) Trains are lethal, b) My right brain is the size of a pea and c) I am headed into a manic phase. Which usually means sightings of the number 11. Hmmm, lets look around:



IT'S A SIGN...that I'll never have to worry that too many people might be killed by my Vogon poetry. Pity.