the whose, or is it the who’s, the whys, and even an occasional wherefore art thou, and what’s their real name, are they alive or passed, from whence they came, or, the origins of their names, the name of that movie where what’s his name fell in love with blonde from that tv show, with the detective and the raincoat who always smoked a cigar though was never seen with match or tobacco, these mysteries that nagged, burrs that came mid-sentence, causing grown people to curse and smack their head, now, blessedly put to bed in seconds depending on the goodness of your internet connection…
but now I wonder if the world is better off with instantaneous information much of which is hooliganism and mis and dis, made-up-as-you-go-along but now recorded as gospel truth
well recall the happy, romantic nature of falling in love across the library table, secret smooching in dusty stacks of tomes, or is it tombs, that were never read but contained the secrets of the universe…
but never for too long, for repair and restoration I do take a triple dose of Prevagen,