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Tuesday November 12th 2013  Tim Candler

 

      The Artist cheerfully greeted me this morning with, "Today is eleven, twelve, thirteen."  I was staring out the window at the "wintery mix."  A horrible sight upon which I blame the context of The Artist's greeting eluding me. 

     As a rule, when floundered by meaning, the reaction is to make some sort of noise. In the early morning, I can think of this noise as a limbic reaction.  And under no circumstances does the limbic system like to appear uncomprehending.

 

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