UFOs exist: as do the glabrous homunculi who buzz us in them. I know it; you know it. A special credulity is not required: the cumulative affirming data are oceanic, more or less. So drop your punctual skepticism for one minute: it has a common-room urbanity, but we understand each other better than that.
This information, I realize, does not furbish your day: or mine: we’ve got recession and Jimmy and, most important, a damn washer-drier-room sink that won’t drain. No one can hack life-as-we-know-it with the moment-by-moment acceptance of UFOs: any more than I could rope and piton my way up a steep afternoon with the moment-by-moment acceptance of inevitable death or His resurrection. I should be able; I dig that. But it would make changing the lint filter or my high cholestrol intake seem even less relevant. Humans have a fuse mechanism: astonishment will trip it after some sensible while. Fall ragweed allergy time is upon us: and, thank you, my sinuses outbrag the universe right now.
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