If compression is the thief of understanding, then
clarity is the gift of enlightenment
Somewhere in the median,
they meet.
The Discordance of Self-Awareness
I was a child. You had this routine. Every Sunday at 11 a.m., you’d come round the back of my tenement building and climb onto a soapbox. In your bow tie and Donkey Jacket you looked like a music‑hall act fallen on hard times. You’d take a swig of wine, clear your throat, and launch into Mario Lanza’s Be My Love.
And every week, when you finished, my mother would take out her handkerchief, dab her eyes, open her purse, toss in a few coins, close it again, and say, “Why doesn’t that bloody man sing something new?”