Now, who said there were no accidents? It was probably a psychiatrist of some sort. As 'The Core' whirs away in the DVD player to the right and I tap away nonsense, I can say for a certainty that there are NO ACCIDENTS! I have no justification for this statement but I hold it to be axiomatic: A self-evident truth.
But why speak in such terms, and why be so graceful in terms of little meaning to anyone on a daily basis? It's a feeling, such as those that come upon you in the wee small hours of the morning. No failure so vast nor success so uplifting is ever truly an accident, and to this we must hold fast even with the rubbery grip of eternally tired.
Is it an accident we don't make it through job interviews? No. Is it an accident when a leaf drops and breaks the rail system? No, that's the world! Do good and bad books and movies happen by accident? No! It's all wonderful! I think I might be sleep deprived. This post doesn't make any sense. Have I mentioned Clomp von Clomp, that mischievous eternal creep that keeps popping into my stories and messing up his own evil schemes? No, good, that would be weird and might deter people.
Ah, the joys of blogging in a vacuum. In the next week I need to write about the 'Popeye' movie, redraft thesis and articles some more, job hunt, go to the radio station and make a podcast, correspond with people after a lengthy lull and somehow not go crazy!
Crazy crazy crazy. Moooo!
Oblivious Oliver.
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