Much Contemplation, Unsaid, Forever Unrecorded

maid of smoke, made of phantasy (click for the colouriffic)

Some shorts:

Someone described me as "fit as a mountain goat" recently. That's definitely nice to hear, even if not necessarily true.

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"In traveling, a companion, in life, compassion," she repeats, making sure of it. "I think it means," I say, "that chance encounters are what keep us going. In simple terms."
- Kafka on the Shore, by Haruki Murakami

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There is an episode of RadioLab that explores "laughter". They interview a scientist that offers evidence that mice laugh. Chimps laugh. One of the folks interviewed suggests (and is not alone in this sentiment) that laughter is totally a social mechanism — that we laugh as a way of communicating one thing or another. Jad asks Robert, or vice versa, how often he laughs out loud to himself. Rarely, his response indicates. I recently passed a mass of months without doing so even once — but in the past several weeks have done so somewhat frequently. There was no one around to whom I could have been communicating anything. I was alone, spurred by a joyous memory, or maybe something that a friend wrote to me. How does one explain those times that we laugh, out loud, to ourselves? Am I a rare case? Am I going mad? How often do you do it?
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Here is Something Likely Unplottable in 2 or 3-Dimensional Space

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