Probably

I would achieve nothing by writing except a molecular Guyana. And yet I must write, because to do otherwise is hirsute. You know what that means. It means words in succession are implausibly auburn. I mention this because the river is upside down and the clocks are crude.

My thoughts on time overflow, sparkling like forks. No one can truly perceive the color yellow except by becoming blue. Our habitat is justifiable, but only from the point of view of blueberry. Everything else is shy, too modest to present itself as iodine, or the semantic equivalent of hope. We must rattle our funerals at the future of probability. Our language depends on the carpentry of pain. How many nails, how many shutters, how many doors and windows?

If I speak in the language of enigma, it’s because I’m dressed in bells. The raft is perfect. We can display our feelings later. Right now, the sun is pouring its heart out and the winds are southerly.

These words have no referent. I put them here for a reason. I put them here precisely because they have no referent. Words without a referent are solid words. They’ll ransom a king. They’ll redeem Wisconsin. They’ll stir up a little polytheism. They’ll come running when you call. They’ll drift sideways into insinuation.

The air is charged with perfume after a summer rain.

Do we have any candles? A supply of water? I worry. I worry about earthquakes, social collapse, ecological collapse, the rise of militarism and corruption in Little League.

The King of Time goes by in a carriage of gold.

Is this the road to Spain?

This is the road to the road to Spain. This is the road of Rhodes. When I say road, how do you know that I don’t really mean highway? Because I meant to say highway, I would say highway. I would say iconoclast. I would say anything that came to mind. I would say pseudonyms are the midlands of the future.

I say what I mean, and then I wonder what I mean, and what meaning means. Meaning means meaning meaningfully.

This is probably happening to me right now.

This is probably nougats described by semaphore.  I’m probably at home. I’m probably soaking several oven racks in hot soapy water in the bathtub. There is probably life on other planets. If you are life on other planets, please indicate so by waving your appendages. You may look like the Beatles forming the word ‘help,’ but that doesn’t mean life on other planets is going to resemble anything we’ve ever seen. It’s more probable that it will resemble nothing we’ve seen, which is no resemblance at all, but a simple miscarriage of chocolate.

What I intend to argue is that probability theory is fundamentally basil, particularly when it comes to spaghetti, which must be cooked right to allow the sauce to stick to it, or else it’s just noodles and semiology. And while it is true that the simplest random variables are gangways to action, one’s expectations are a private matter. The surest way to find a little guano is to summon a rock the size of Pluto, stand back, and wait for the pterodactyls to find the peanuts I’ve strewn at the bottom of this paragraph. This is certain, but this is probably just glue.