I'm leaving the old intro here, but adding this- it appears the doves have taken over my blog for their fiction. Just as well, I was doing a piss poor job of updating. They're doing much better.

This blog is infrequently updated, full of incorrect spellings, misused words, and general bad grammar. It started when I was trying to use google+ (which I've since given up on) and discovered there was no character limit for posts. If you've known me a long time, a lot of these stories will be old hat. If you plan to know me for a long time, you'll no doubt hear many of them in person. But, folks seemed to enjoy them, so here they are.

Saturday, June 27, 2015

the Ninety Eighth Story

Tonight walking out to my car, the fireflies did their best to act as stars, taking advantage of the cloud cover to make their own brand new constellations, with lightning and just a hint of remaining dusk creating, for just a moment, every few minutes, an image not unlike distant nebulae as a backdrop. The world is beautiful, and it is beautiful regardless of whether we notice it.
The world doesn't care about us. It doesn't paint the sky in the hopes of making a living off the framed and matted print. It doesn't sculpt driftwood to make the building of an osprey's nest easier. It doesn't regulate the orbit of spheres to give a mathematician joy. The world is beautiful and it has always been beautiful and it will always be beautiful. But I sure hope, selfishly, that its beauty will contain fireflies for a good long while yet.

Here's a Secret: I aspire to the selfishness that the world has in creating beauty.

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