Temporal

A few years ago, while taking a work break to visit the Manhattan isle for entertainment in the guise of training toward PMP (Pimp My Project) certification, I saw a theatrical farce called Spamalot which rehashed material from a movie that rehashed material from a series of comedy sketches.

Tempest.

I use material from my life, which rehashes what I've already done. Thus, I mix reality and fantasy, having made love to the most wonderful woman on the drive to class last night, she and I using the erasable board markers to circle targets for treasure hunting truffles tucked temptuously in titillating ticklish hideaways.

Out of Touch.

What are pupils and irises but students and flowers? What is an optic nerve but what is an optic nerve?

Facts are fictions, anyway. History is a pot of apple butter on the boil. Molasses are really made of mole asses?

There's really no such thing as a better cup of tea. A cup of tea better be a cup of tea. Not better. And not a butter cup, neither.

And that woman I made love to. Well, she made love to me, too. Like making change, only without the change purse. Straps, though (or seatbelts, if you prefer items with only one purpose). Woulda used whips but had to handle the steering wheel and gear knob. Two hands. Two feet occupied with accelerator and clutch. Whatta drive. No need for a putter this time, the rest of the golf bag plenty for a round of fairways and greens. Par for the course, as they say.

Time out.