"Such is life." - Samuel Beckett -Waiting for Godot, Absence diminishes mediocre passions and increases great ones- as the wind extinguishes candles and fans fires. - Francois de La Rochefoucauld, ard times, “If what Proust says is true- that happiness is the absence of fever- then I will never know happiness. For I am possessed by a fever for knowledge- experience- and creation.”- Anais Nin, I'll be seeing you In all the old familiar places, I'll get me coat, If I don't see you through the week I'll see you through the window [traditional stalkers song that], Is this a lasting treasure Or just a moment's pleasure?, Scotch missed, Spero autem protinus te videre, when the Promise of a brave new world unfurled beneath a clear blue
Esme is experiencing some turbulence upon the Cloud at present, consequently she has found herelf running through treacle trying to keep up with all the doings in the blogosphere, (as some may have noted – curtsies a few times). Therefore for a short (one hopes) period of time she will have to attend to said turbulence and leave the blogosphere until a rather more clement troposphere settles upon the Cloud once again.
She shall aim to visit her followers/followees/followants* – (Follow-ants are very friendly creatures, but you can’t shake ’em off. (Not to be confused with ‘Follow-aunts’ who besiege people with badly knitted jumpers and insist on spitting on hankies and wiping their faces every half an hour, whilst marvelling at how tall they’ve grown)), blogs to read and keep up with their shenanigans when feasible, however this may not be possible very often, and bearing this in mind, she would like all her present followers reading this here writing right now, to go forth and sit in that cage over there – points to something that vaguely resembles a cage and is made from tin foil tubes, gaffa tape, cereal boxes, glitter and ‘some kind of goo’ – to make sure they remain upon the Cloud and not forget esme; alternatively, they must all promise faithfully to remember esme and the Cloud and not sod off after a week or so all sneaky in the night with a handkerchief full of stolen sticky buns tied to a stick over their shoulder and a shady look on their face.
Because that won’t end well. – looks stern
Much like the famed fat-head and his metal skeleton – I’ll be back – waves and sets the Cloud’s course to the back of beyond.