41.

I have no idea what the ordinary is, except that it be the extraordinary. It is as if, instead of the weather, our small talk consisted of the details of our continually being visited by all manner of rapidly evolving birds — as if you could nary purchase a pasty without offering an account of what appears to be a new form of seagull. But the parrot on my shoulder is quick to point out that continual novelty might be a misleading way to characterise the ordinary. But that’s just it, I say, don’t you see Quark? The utter freshness of this strange consistency is the signification of all true nonsense, because, by Jove, if what is the reason needed a reason it wouldn’t be reason at all! But you are quite right, it is probably better for me just to make some remark on the weather & limit myself to the singular very when they ask me if I’m well, lest my apparently unfounded enthusiasm should give them another impression. Thank goodness for these more unlikely outlets beyond the crumbling facades of our now sadly imaginary high streets. I make perfect sense to the mob of tiny hummingbirds who animate my elbows, & even the dullest of sparrows shall doff their caps in my seed strewn wake, as I sling the sledgehammer rhythm of my happy work song towards the crumbling arcade behind the drifting dunes of the changeless beaches. Forty days & forty nights I have been battering this pendulous weight against the tarnished bank of gambling machines, & now all the glass has returned to sand & the faces have slipped off the coins to recover the eyes of their owners & the cheap circuitries that housed their flash routines have melded with the structural molasses of their mechanically wrought malthought plannage, such that the entire design has been rerendered potential & might now make some sufficiently advanced magpie a rather fine unhooking utensil. I know not why I am happy but I can tell you for certain it isn’t myself that I am pleased with.