Outside the roofs nearby are white, a flutter of snow has been swirling around ineffectually for the last few hours, dancing over the St. Patrick’s Day parade wending its way down Fifth Avenue, I suppose.  They say it will turn to rain after a while, I can hear cars splashing in it as they pass outside.  But the roofs look nice and there’s a dusting of white over parts of the garden.

Somewhere a lion yawns.

A clever woman in law school wrote a student note for one of the scholarly journals, discussing the then frontiers of the internet, dubbing cyber space Cyberia.  I don’t know if that was her coinage or not, but it seemed clever to me at the time.  One reaches for things like cleverness as a law student; I recall one project we had that first year was called “Treasure Hunt.”  The treasure in question was a bunch of tricky to find statutes, case citations and even some dicta.   Fond of drawing as I am, it was hard to resist, during Torts or Contracts, drawing a scandalized guy pointing at a steaming pile of shit, flies buzzing around it, saying “Hey! That’s not treasure!”  The girl next to me, who was beautiful, smiled and wrote an approving note on the bottom of it when I slid it over to her.

A wildebeest passes gas.  “What’s gnu?” the punster asks blandly.

On a day like this, and outside the flakes are now fat and fluffy, falling in a great 3-D display, alone in Cyberia, it seems pointless to dream that my plans will ever be more than the distant daydream they are now.   More than pointless, really.  Without money you might as well (insert your favorite substitute for the vulgar phrase about taking a lustful leap after a rolling donut).

“Your best words, my friend, not worth the air it takes to expel them, even though that air is CO2 and useless to anything but a vegetable,” says the tired voice of experience.

And, sad to say, it’s true.  A word to the wise will suffice, but the best words in the world, addressed to inanimate objects, or immovable ones, or ones prone to silence, or to multitasking or….

“Pipe down, man,” says the voice of experience.  Right again.