Ian's adventure into WTFdom - The reason for seagulls

When disaster feels as if it's looming but the flowers they look like they are blooming, on may suggest an explanation for which this has manifest, itself right here, at some part of the year. But at best we only have a guess, a thought, an idea to be sought.

Perhaps there is only one right path but we are granted only one path to be on and that path we are on is the right path since that path can be changed by our minds despite the interference of mimes, can there in fact be a space where due dates are slacked? Or another space where your bags are already packed?

When are am can sand be on land and in water at an impasse to the overpass under the underpass that goes over the underpass over the pass?

Some know who you know but some make predictions of doom in the department of weather which is run by heather who's never been healthier since she stopped trying to be made of recycled coke bottles. But alas the pilot adjusts the planes throttles and through the heavens rocket we with all the grace of a train on a track with no place to go but onwards, with no limits but that which many are forced into for the sake of so called sanity.

"Why," they ask, "can't a crab, very well use his claws to grab? Does this not facilitate the same purpose and promise made by thumbs possessed by those who live under stars, but for whom living under stars is not enough so they may wish to live amongst the stars?"

"Perhaps," some respond, "but I can't really say I've seen a crab grab a knife to stab out of anger or fear of jealousy, so as far as we are concerned, we daren't call crabs equals especially when they have never made any sequels to movies they've made, for which they have failed to be paid, for that is."

"Of course," respond others, "but perhaps the memory centers and the terminals for thinking out the next actions effect on the idea of tomorrow limits a crabs action and use to tools, but can we really say so much for us, a species who thinks so much of themselves they make movies about chipmunk punks and Donald’s of ducks, to waste what hast been so divinely provided?"

But now the conversation breaks down, as i see Bogo the clown cutting another one loose of this shallow chain we call "reality." sinister sisters with synthetic sifters go in search for diamonds in coagulated blood they saw in a flood amongst the mud and soot. "Alas," they sigh, "much of us plan to one day die, without finding a diamond, a ruby, or rhubarb crumble pie. But should this be the case, never let them put me in a coffin without my fair share of cake."

But alas we seems to be drawing to a close, but it really isn't one. it is just a matter of punctuation, a matter of fitting a pose, without breaking your nose, on the glass ceiling, without ether that, such a thing would be a frightful feeling.