Explain hurricanes, tornados, and earthquakes, philosophically:


Nudity, and logic

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Those seminal backdrops. Those private entrances. Those hours of prep. Those golden hour sways. Those lexicons of looks. Those colours on parade. Those fittings and hooks. Those textures and charades. Those laptops. Those cross-posting social steps. Those polaroid sentences. Those motorways and runways. Those waiting books. Those pivotal pilots. Those flowers beholden. Those sexy lovers' eyelets. Those gripping tethers. Those mountaintops and facials. Those pink floyd rotor blades. Those motorcades and photo rays. Those baiting teetotals. Those powers flexing. Those escape routes and false friends. Those ever unspokens. Those blessings unfrozen. Those jumping off the deep ends. These days. That fountain. Them brains. Thine legs

If you eat right. If you think right. If you exercise right. If you breathe right. If you work right. If you stretch right. If you sleep right. If you live right. If you know, what’s right. You will still die. And you will die, *right*. In fact. You may not even survive this, very entertaining, tip-off evening. You may collapse on the floor. Or slip in a tub. Or swallow a wholesome knife. And we will all read about you, tomorrow. In the morning newses’, merciful daily fright. About that guy, who kicked the astral bucket. After shattering his dayglo eyes. But maybe. *Just maybe*. You’ll embrace this sudden sail. Maybe you’ll kiss, the entire verdant sky. With all six senses’, ablaze in Celtic grace. And leave a little Irish lick. Of conamaran maven light. For some small child, on the still soft shoreline. Flying their first majestic memory’s, ephemeral, breathless kite 🌅 🪁

For John O'Donohue: A friend I never met