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Whatever that may mean.
Three months ago, while sitting on floor of my musty attic, I had quite a thought:
I had been swimming in piles of moldy paper, pens and discarded book binders when I scowled and wondered, “why isn’t anybody responding to my notes and letters? I mail and mail and mail. I know! They are indolent shmoes who cannot see the value of my fine work! That is why they are not responding!”
Then, David Royal made his way to my attic ( I hate when people sneak into my home – disposing of bodies is exhausting) and suggested that more people would see it if I would somehow electronically publish these bits on something called ” A web”. He said he was a “master of a web”.
He could tell spiders what to do? Poor boy.
” David,” I said as I sadly patted his shoulder ” you must be hallucinatory. Now why would typing the same thing into my IBM Selectra typewriter make any difference? Think! I mean, sure I could type it faster, but, sheesh! It’s like you just fell off the hearse wagon.”
David was about to respond when I held my hand up to his face. “Now just sit down, Dave, you must be tired”.
He shook his head, picked up some of my papers (gently removing a small, dead mouse from the top) and told me that now many more folks would see my scribblings.
What a strange fellow.
Still, my pens work, my typewriter clacks resoundingly and, really, I’m glad I didn’t use him to fertilize my nasturtiums.
They didn’t need it anyway. They are a delicious red color now.