Jack Shiiii...

...wait, I'm not wanting to bump this into a mature rating, now, am I? Although does the implication count? After all, I might as well be making mention of the, uhm, new shiiiiirt I bought today. Yah. That's the title for you, Jack Shiiiirt.

And we're back to our regular programming, the thought that spawned this petite intervention into the realm of blogs, rather than books. It seems, as of late, that I cannot pull up a thought from the well of my head. Maybe the cord is too short, maybe there's a hole in my bucket. Anyone care to place bets?

A more reasonable cause would be the fumes. Yes, fumes. I just moved, and this place still reeks of new paint and fresh wood glue. But, you ask, shouldn't you be experiencing wild and bewildering hallucinations? Why yes, I reply, I bleepity-bleep well should be. However, I am not. Hot diggity.

On the contrary, I have an idea that has been stewing for some time. Maybe the well is really a slow cooker? This idea presented itself in the airport in Rome, where I was stranded for a good many hours. Only recently have I actually penned the ponder-ings onto pages, much to my own delight. Even so, I cannot seem to begin this series of events. I can give you the in-between bits quite easily. The start? The end? Two strikes. One more, and I'm out. 

To conclude our viewing, I ask a question: do you call it the Eye of Horus or the Eye of Ra?

I vote Horus.


The End

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