I had a splinter in my finger the other day and it got me thinking: is separating your laundry really worth the trouble if it all gets washed in the same water temperature?
Sometimes I feel as though I’ve lost the airfoil that attaches to turn of the century dirigible that swims in the sea searching for stripes of blue, green, and orange. Or is it really blue, green, and orange stripes in the sea and not the flora of central Australia? I can never keep the two straight.
If one could say I had this thought how would one know it if I say I hadn’t thought anything at all and the one who said so is having no such thoughts as my own? I suppose knowing not oneself from one is as easy as not knowing one from a self who is not me.