Thursday, July 31, 2008


It had of late begun to look a bit less vital. It shrugged now where it had once flexed, nodded where it had once commanded, yawned where it had once screamed. People took notice, and as a result nearly everybody talked about its slackening vitality. I wouldn’t even worry about trotting my little Annie about in front of it, one brazen mother could be overheard declaring. This would have been a totally preposterous claim to have made just a few years back, but now people generally agreed that it would in all likelihood be safe to prance little Annie about in front of it.

In an attempt to bolster its waning vitality, it bought many colorful things. A turquoise teacup, for instance, and a bright yellow sock. People generally laughed at these transparent attempts at revitalization, and though it could hear the others laughing at it, it was no longer capable of making any of them stop. Growl, the thing sniffled, growl.

What are we to do with those less vital things that we confront? And worse, what are we to do with a once vital something grown sick and wretched? One very fine method has, I hope, been indicated here: laugh at whatever efforts that thing might make to make itself appear vital once again.

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