I have a brother, his name is George. He's a pretty good brother, as brothers go. Maybe even as brothers don't go, depending on what exactly that means. I'm sure you get the point.
Here's another point. Recently, my brother shared with me, in strictest confidence, the draft of a manuscript he penned in a potentially heat-exhaustion-induced moment of hallucinogenic clarity. The universe peeled away its thin candy shell and revealed its manifold glory. George, filter, distiller, captured the summation of overwhelming cosmic truth in prose, thus (set in italics as an editorial device, meant to denote both guest authorship and a dream-like sense of bewilderment):
In the orange glow of twilight, in an arid environment, many creatures are astir that would normally be napping in their burrows, cuddled to their loved ones, or hidden in the shadow of a bush. But not at this moment, lizards skipping from sand wrinkle to sand wrinkle, barely touching ground. Birds harkening to their amigos, hopping, not quite ready for flight. Snakes always seem to slither, after plenty of time basking. Horny toads living up to their name in so many ways. Even the occasional mouse can be seen speeding down a dune or two. That is life on the Mojave I suppose, never enough prose, but sights to inspire it. How do such pretty flowers emerge, seemingly from nowhere, when the desert takes but a tiny drink of the world's water? Not a place for humanity some say, others appreciate the beauty of the barren. Most of the naysayers appear well watered like an orchid in an obsessive florist's greenhouse. Most of the appreciators have a leathery toughened look; skin that appears to have seen more sun and less moisture than even the desert. Dried apricots, say the plump plums. But, I? I am neither, I am but a cactus on the sand. An observer, usually impartial to life's events, but witness nonetheless. What happened on these sands a few fortnights ago, burdens even my soul. Had I arms I would have used them. I was appalled by the activity of that overly watered beast, hydrocephaly, if you ask me. Murder, the very word upsets me. It doesn't do justice to the victim. It sounds so petty and contrived. But, that is exactly what I saw. The horrible butcher! Nadia Nopales, was a gentle soul, sure she was tough on the outside, prickly probably best describes her personality, but she was kind at heart. And what a glory to behold, she kept me going from day to day, some would call her my lover if cacti can be considered capable of such a thing. All in the name of a burrito, I, Sylvester Saguaro, swear revenge!!!!! What a travesty...
Let that sink in for a while.
Perhaps there is more to this tale, but I am not the one to ask.
Curiously,
walter