This tiny house, my head my heart my body my soul, is filled with tiny thoughts. These thoughts are like the ethereal chemtrails of somersaulted astronauts—floating, shimmering, adorable conspiracies at the edge of the atmosphere, anxious for oxygen. Sentences like that reek of hyperbolic fluff, but don’t mind them, they’re just feeling their oats. They are pushing on their embryonic walls. They are curious about the future and will eagerly pull at that last thread of your favorite jumper. You know, the one that might unravel it all.
Or to put it another way: Many tiny thoughts should never leave my tiny mind house. But they’re going to, every week. They will jump blindly into The Stream.
Will you be a chaperone? Do you agree to guide them through rough waters, to provide your firm hand to grasp their not-drowning-waving one? Once read, they can bravely face the scorn of the sword or the warmth of applause and in that moment they will live or they will die. Brief, as they were born to be. It will be beautiful. Or it will be ugly. Either way, minutes of your life will be lost and that will be our contract.
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Tiny thoughts will also bring treats as amends, in case you don’t like said tiny thought. These amends might be something pretty, something fun, or something for your ears. Or all of those things. The whole shebang will be like a creative corsage, festooned elegantly upon your virtual wrist.
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