sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

It is one of those beautiful situations that takes your breath away, along a river, or a mountain range, or, in the extreme example, along a river cutting through the mountains (at which point your breath is forcibly ripped from your body and then tossed about, cruelly, by the river and mountains, just over your head, out of your reach, whilst you sit there, next to your companion for just such a situation, whether that be your transcendent self, or, in the lucky cases, a lovely (speaking wholly, and not just counting physical attributes, though, in case that make you wary, the physical incarnation of that someone is, for the record, included in the whole, and quite lovely, as well) someone, or, in the unlucky cases, the weatherperson on your local television, not being able to breathe, and them (except in the case of the weatherperson, who's entirely too caught up in what those clouds over the mountains portend) noticing at one point when your face has turned blue and you're grasping frantically at your breath, being bandied about by the river and mountains just out of your reach, and proceed to tackle you to the ground, which, in normal circumstances, might be heartily welcomed, but in this case that maneouver only takes you further from the spot where your breath is being lobbed back and forth, and you've now bumped part of your head off an impressively hard rock, and believe you can feel blood dripping out the back of your hair right now and the dizziness begin to set in, neither of which does anything to get your breath back, nor does the person lying on your chest help to any great degree.
And lying on your back, with a panicked look in your eyes as you watch your breath flung lazily back and forth over your head, and the eyes of either your transcendent self or your lovely companion (the weatherperson, again, not paying attention, but now fiddling with something inside their jacket) (NB. the obvious preference being the lovely companion, as delightful as your transcendent self can be sometimes), is when you can really begin to think you could certainly appreciate the simpler, and considerably less dangerous things in Life.).
And it only gets more majestic and mysterious when the weatherperson gets up and pulls out a weathered (ha!) old staff, taps it three times on the stone beneath his/her feet, and commands the winds and clouds to begone, and they do, and once again, you're sitting there, half choked, on the banks of the river, admiring the view. And not trying to look at their now full beard and wizard's cap.

That someone makes you breathless. Trust me, I know.

disclaimer:
You could say, almost, that I'm missing inspiration at the moment, slightly uninspired, despite the scenery, missin' the Muse.

You could also say "Tubby Tommy" ten times fast, and I guarantee the second will provide a considerably different sort of entertainment.

I tried the latter, and it's quite invigorating.

Ah, sweet language.


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				Absence Makes the Heart
		archives horoscopes contacts fables home		It is one of those beautiful situations that takes your breath away, along a river, or a mountain range, or, in the extreme example, along a river cutting through the mountains (at which point your breath is forcibly ripped from your body and then tossed about, cruelly, by the river and mountains, just over your head, out of your reach, whilst you sit there, next to your companion for just such a situation, whether that be your transcendent self, or, in the lucky cases, a lovely (speaking wholly, and not just counting physical attributes, though, in case that make you wary, the physical incarnation of that someone is, for the record, included in the whole, and quite lovely, as well) someone, or, in the unlucky cases, the weatherperson on your local television, not being able to breathe, and them (except in the case of the weatherperson, who's entirely too caught up in what those clouds over the mountains portend) noticing at one point when your face has turned blue and you're grasping frantically at your breath, being bandied about by the river and mountains just out of your reach, and proceed to tackle you to the ground, which, in normal circumstances, might be heartily welcomed, but in this case that maneouver only takes you further from the spot where your breath is being lobbed back and forth, and you've now bumped part of your head off an impressively hard rock, and believe you can feel blood dripping out the back of your hair right now and the dizziness begin to set in, neither of which does anything to get your breath back, nor does the person lying on your chest help to any great degree. And lying on your back, with a panicked look in your eyes as you watch your breath flung lazily back and forth over your head, and the eyes of either your transcendent self or your lovely companion (the weatherperson, again, not paying attention, but now fiddling with something inside their jacket) (NB. the obvious preference being the lovely companion, as delightful as your transcendent self can be sometimes), is when you can really begin to think you could certainly appreciate the simpler, and considerably less dangerous things in Life.). And it only gets more majestic and mysterious when the weatherperson gets up and pulls out a weathered (ha!) old staff, taps it three times on the stone beneath his/her feet, and commands the winds and clouds to begone, and they do, and once again, you're sitting there, half choked, on the banks of the river, admiring the view. And not trying to look at their now full beard and wizard's cap. That someone makes you breathless. Trust me, I know. disclaimer: You could say, almost, that I'm missing inspiration at the moment, slightly uninspired, despite the scenery, missin' the Muse. You could also say "Tubby Tommy" ten times fast, and I guarantee the second will provide a considerably different sort of entertainment. I tried the latter, and it's quite invigorating. Ah, sweet language.

Absence Makes the Heart