Often times you must actually decide what it is that you need – is it a flower? Oh no, is it an interpretive dance? Oh lah. Is it a goat? Or a Geet? or a little, perrrrrrfect piece of sheep in a bowl of tender red curry?
So the stipulation is thus: lubricate my mind. Let it hold water. Let the holes in the basement of it chew through the world. If there is no lubrication, then possibly try sand. For all that have read upon the mighty religion that is Sandology, will know of that whch I speak – your life, in a grain. blue, white, yellow, imperial or silica consistant – not quite a lubricant, but at least you can surf down it.
Surf, down, sand.
So when you stipulate lubrication, ask not what hole you need lubricated – ask not what needs be thrusted down into the coils of the verbose anti-toast of a dremil drills pathway. Ask only this – if you have no sand, must the jelly of petroleum stick, stuck or stag out?
Suare peg – round hole – depending on the size, it may or may not fit. But this passageway, all the way down to the end, down deep below, you have only yourself to blame for the fact that – oh, yes, you fit. The hole is larger than the peg. Size doesnt matter in this instance, jsut dont touch upon the sides or your corners will wither and braid like a permanent marker stained on a stage.
Surf, with lubricant on your feet. On your lips. On your toes and now, only now…
…I have managed to write of what I can, in order to exercise my fingers, work my brain, touch letter to finger to page to out and out and now, only now.
I can probably write this freakin article.