Someone, somewhere, is planning the downfall of my righteous regime. Woe betide he and his ilk, should my gaze befall them.
My last session draws to its end, and my impending travels to the Middle-East slither --rather deliciously-- to a pre-determined, furiously organized date. The itinerary is not in any way touristic, but in tauntamount disorder: sorcerous and macabre, with a hint of mint.
I am conscious of the dangers for a North-American, yet I have the unending bounty of loving Mankind and believing in all religions. Erratum: I claim to possess these ephemeral bounties.
My poor mice will have to meet their end this Wednesday. I will comfort them with Tchaikovsky's second symphony, as well as caressing them individually for an equivalent time, lest my guilt follow me through the coming months.
The life of research --especially with the demands of haste that our society warrants necessary to ensure the survival of those not fit (not an elitist)-- began on a road unclear and strewn with whispered, dusty dreams and perverted optimism. Now, I understand the better meaning of optimism; there can never be only one true choice at a moment, as life is far more complicated than any of us seem to grasp. Humility, ironically, is a valour lost to the few lucky enough to forget about its existence.
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