Leaving aside the matter of what are termed men, and trying to forget where I am, I come to the question of three lost boys and a fairy queen. The fairy queen would like to have a comma separator, but considering the state of my home, which has much to do with my present activity in place of doing my own skivvy work, I'll call the shots on the decoration of the text this once.
The decoration of a home is weighing on my mind: I can't live like this forever. And I have an inkling what interior decorators are about, which is an inkling more than I had this time last year.
Fairies are decidedly reluctant to commit themselves to text. They're much better at doing things that give lost boys everywhere a sense of pride; but also they don't have the native powers of construction as men who can at times write in the non-committal mood, seemingly endlessly, which might leave the reader waiting for a fictional character to appear, or preparing to hurl an item within convenient reach at the author or web-logger for seeming to be writing about nothing at all.
The fairy is of course a fictional character itself, which at times can be of the neuter gender. My hypothesis is that they only pose as an it, as girls and boys who play together when the only difference between them is the convenience or lack thereof of foregoing modern conveniences. And sometimes such are our friends in our dreams.
The dream ended in a shop which could be anywhere: the kind of shop that is my worst enemy for containing decorative items of poor quality. Dad, for his affinities, could only bear a house that is half-Quaker. For he was raised in a house where quality had only one degree: top. But then he had to move to Suburbia, and he found that he had gone through a one-way mirror.
Where had he come from? The place wherein his childhood home used to be, when he went back, contained houses furnished with glitter.
Or was it that his dad was one of the old misers they tell us came for the gold of the land, who lived in estates that peasants were thrown bodily from were they to but set a toe on the grass thereof?
You tell me and we'll both know.
In the meantime I'll tell you about my grandfather who insisted that if your plate cannot be silver, to choose anything but top quality earthenware is to choose to burden yourself with your goods; which is to choose to complain.
Which leaves the fairy sore, because she doesn't want to live like a Quaker.
But that gives me something to do while I wait for advice on the matter of waiting.
Posturing is a better term for what we called posing. I've adopted the word pose to describe a fairy's attitude in relation to Kernel. So I can still call myself a poser, and you may call me a fairy.