Sometimes, I think, one's life can appear to have elements that are lifted straight out of a class of literature that I would struggle to define. I refer to pieces that can be written in a way that seems strangely beautiful and overpowering when it is read, but which come back during silent moments in the future and seem to be stuff and nonsense, lacking any sort of coherence. I suppose one could say that they require sufficient abstraction on the part of the reader for them not to be dismissed as nonsense. Oh, and there is certainly an overlap with that body of work which requires an intellectual capacity far beyond me; but it also encompasses many things I do consider dear to my heart, but which are vulnerable because of their nakedness.

At any rate, I have come across such situations occasionally, ones blessed with both an innate artistic beauty that is clear only on reflection, but more obviously with an element of randomness and discordance that defies even the most careful study and scrutiny, but nonetheless makes its presence felt. Sometimes it is worth thinking about the questions that such events pose. Sometimes, though, it is best to accept the insanity, and hope with a wry smile that they keep coming.