A few weeks ago, after shelving my books in a new nightstand, I noticed one of them entitled "Semantics and the Philosophy of Language" was sticking out from the index just enough to appear as though I had a book named "SaPo". I actually sat and pondered this for a few moments, and then let it slip away, for I had no idea what "SaPo" meant.
A few days ago I began to read Beckett's "Mallone Dies".
Now, this morning I just happened to look back at that stand with the books in it, and my eye was inexplicably drawn to the little sliver of "Semantics and the Philosophy of Language" that showed.
Sapo is the son of Mr. and Mrs. Saposcat in the above mentioned story I am currently reading.
My life is surely becoming an assemblage of mystic clues cleverly dispersed and disguised as inconsequential, disparate pieces of the normal environment.
I may need to train my thought to mimic Agent Cooper's from Twin Peaks if I hope to wade through it all to some sense of understanding.
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Ham-fisted ham fisting.