Three-Eleven Crumbs

When something momentous crumbles (notice the etymological clue), more oft. than noft. the remainders lose much, if not all, of their former vitality, no matter how insistently or damn-well stubbornly they power on. Sometimes, however — sometimes the dwindlers, the individual smithereens, manage a spark that promises more than even antebellum can offer. Whether they deliver is another thing, but that small glint among the debris is so rare as to be priceless, or at least next to worthless. And it deserves its two-thirds-scale replica, complete with anachronistic mining machinery and exorbitant pricing. [For the record, the 11.32 smile continues into this secret.] Sometimes it's a cannon with a frog on top.

The above optimism owes some to timing: I'm poised before a stretch of mismatched pillows, mismatched feasts and field days, to mention nothing of the six discs of suppressed ardour that are lined up — and to mention nothing of the most important part. That last is somewhere in the ether at present, swallowing volatile logic. One hopes for a cameo. Meanwhile he makes another artefact, less direct, perhaps, but it amounts to much the same. Flying 'cross the desert in a TWA, I drop it square in the sand, for the fun of future -ologists. The present don't need it yet and I bump into a girl. [Some time past, rings creeping, I pour myself off to rest.]

Whether or not any of this manifests is academic, the spark is there. I won't yet utter the dreaded R-words, but with a certain month approaching it can't be far from my fingers. Shh, sit down. I'm just saying. Nothing more than a slightly sceptical nod at this point. Best not to plague the thing until it's more of a thing. And if it's not already clear— well, that's not likely to change. But I will say this.