Would you rather be a sperm whale
suddenly called into existence
several miles above the surface of an alien planet
or an equally blessed bowl of petunias?
I guess either would work, considering
they don’t have to contemplate
the sound of ice being scraped off car windows
early in the morning to realise everything
needs to be done again tomorrow.
If you turn to big names like Shakespeare, da Vinci, or, Godwin’s law notwithstanding,
Hitler—the ultimate evil—to define a point of reference from which to move the absolute
blandness underlying our tedious yet convenient inadequacy, there is a risk of throwing
yourself at Newton’s flaming laser sword of a sort. But even if you abandon the trenches
to be content with the contemplation of the Bavarian gentians, your obliging neighbour
will get his hands on you eventually.
hidden pilcrow 