Unsorted

The usual phrase is “out of sorts”, I know, but I’m not frazzled, nor frenetically enfeebled. Nor confused, nor depressed. Nor happy nor sad. Seville Orange, anyone?

No, not even that.

This is one of those times where what you thought was terra firma has been whisked away, revealing that bedrock is actually further from firmament than you thought. And I suppose that the dowsing realization’s most dismal prospect is that of losing Heaven. Or at least proximity thereto.

When I remember that that isn’t the case, when I look at the fog over the City and take it as evidence that Heaven is only as high up as you imagine it to be, I’ll have sorted my life—quickly, bubbly or binarily—into something where balance is restored and the devils of mediocrity, mundanity, modernity and [insert alliterative multisyllabic “M”-based muttering bon mot] will just have to go back to not understanding the sublimities that usually infuse and orbit my magical me.

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