We speak of certain things, believing then to be our plea. We then speak of nothing, believing ourselves to be omniscient. Whom, then, to dispatch? We dispatch ourselves, par ce que nous sommes les docteurs de l'esprit, only to descend to the lower levels (dusty as they may be) where familiar portraits hang from sallow walls, sad likenesses uttering no more than what we would want for them to utter.
Consequently, they utter nothing but praise for the praiseworthy, summoning urgent questions as they urge us to retire to the attic. There is distress. There are also malignant vapors that have been known to induce suffocation.
Invading. Invading. Invaders of Pluto.
Nor have we disposed of the matter of the very long cigar that we have been tasked to abuse, containing not tobacco, but the effervescence of procreation. Had not the off-putting U-boat commander seen to it that his fetid but lengthy cigar be slipped into waiting torpedo silos?
Freud, too, had been clear on the issue, bemoaning our preoccupation. It is an unhealthy and highly vaporous act, he concluded resolutely. But unvaporous acts abound, we might then counter, such as those that we entertain when refraining from perusing likely drivel on the internet.
Think of St. Tropez. Think of the sages of Tibet. Think, also, of Marilyn Monroe as she showers you with kisses.
Think of Old Blighty.