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I feel like an iceberg at the moment. Only a small part of me is visible to the general public, the girls in Centra, people I pass in the street. As Kurt Vonnegut said “The real stuff is up here” tapping his head. I used to fight with my mind, now I have befriended it. I thought it was ephemeral but it seems it is the only thing that is real – in my world. Everywhere I go it tags along, through a glass darkly. So a chautauqua – bet you haven’t heard that word in a coon’s age. Exposing my hippie roots. I digress and ramble.  Icebergs have a wonderful shape, irregular, massive, but they float effortlessly. An iceberg destroyed the Titanic, the pride of humanity’s waves. Pride. With global warming as the permanent ice melts, we will be seeing a lot more of icebergs. What happened to the idea of towing them to thirsty places? Pure water in abundance, their nature.  In an undrinkable ocean. They used to be remote, unknown only seen by the intrepid few. In forbidding climes. Greyish-white ghosts, their bulk not visible except to penguins. I am in good company.

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