Yellow Alert

Where We're Planted Isn't Our Fault

It is the best of times, it is the worst of times. Taken all in all, it’s been a long and weary season.

I’ve been reaching for something very far away, like the daffodils in this picture. Reaching, glimpsing, dreaming, watching, pining, tasting. Reaching is a funny thing; to do it you need to believe in all the mechanics of muscle and distance, of dedication and separation and beating separation. You need to see the dream at the end of the road, and see yourself in it. And when you believe in all that, no amount of distance can set you back. Right? It’s all illusion anyway — the world is what we make of it. The world is a sly and wily maze, a mistress and a rumor and a shout. The world is our oyster, is it not?

As it happens, no. The world is not our oyster. As it happens, the world fucking hates oysters. I wish I’d known that before I ordered appetizers.

About Linus

The man behind the curtain. But couldn't we get a nicer curtain?
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