and so . . . . while numberless societies of living transients are born, flourish, and die. A subtle smile may have some influence here, but not too much. In fact, to be honest, practically none. The years pass, and she is walking at 23 minutes to eleven in the morning, past a building scheduled to be demolished, though as yet she does not know that. Shall she ever ? Or look at this same building from a different view. From here we cannot see her. And, needless to say, we do not miss her. All the which time, swarms of bacteria – or organisms which I in my ignorance call bacteria – live, die, split up, live, die, inside the various divisions of her substance.
And so, once more into the breeches mons amis, I asks again . . . . .
What is on my head ?
? ?