I wonder what it's like, being insane. I mean, truly and clearly MAD. It's not something I ponder often. But then I see a character someone's dreamed up, who's the same kind of crazy as every other mad character out there. I'd like to believe there's some kind of variety to it. Like flowers.
I lie awake at one in the morning as I write this, dear readers, regretting my snack of cheese sticks and passing up my magnesium. But I digress. Where were we? Ah, flowers.
Peonies, pansies, lilies, roses... I like most all flowers, save for ones like the voodoo flower and the one that smells like rotting meat in some jungle. Not my particular fancy. I don't hate them. But I don't like them, either.
If you're still here, congratulations. You've entertained yourself with the ramblings of a stranger on the Internet. I can't promise regular updates, nor can I promise the content will be similar for each page. But feel free to follow along, if you wish. Perhaps you'll spot gold among the reeds.
Would that be waxing poetic or waning poetic? Or neither...
