Bookend

Orange juice. Good for you, tasty, and clearly not what you are. Unless of course youare teh special kind of orange juice which has become both literate and sentient. In which case, I'm really les than sure how you'd also learnt the art of interstellar travel and popped the 63 odd light years it takes to get between your world and ours. Then again, sentient, literate orange juice may just be capable of such a feat. After those first steps that leap across time and space may turn into the instant it really is. At any rate, maybe using the juicer this morning wasn't a good idea. No offense. Really. Not like I could have known that you'd be related, feel empathy for your own kind, or anything. I was just in it for the shot of vitamin C and the tasty and wild sugar rush that follows consumption of pure sweet jiuce.

And again with the chickens and teh kittehz. Good friends they are. Romeo and Juliet, Napoleon and Waterloo, Brutus and Caesar, Dust and Wind, Creator and Destroyer, players on the same ballroom floor. Actors and audience, predator and prey, it's a clear plastic wrapper around the candy of reality. Sugar coated and nice, awaiting consumption. Communion in another place, Time. Cut into halves, now edible, discernable, quantifiable, communicable packets of the greater whole. A refined sugar for your morning tea and biscuits.

I rather prefer orange juice, thank you.