They say if you make your bed

then you must lie in it.

But what if you make your bed infrequently

and have to conceal the truth

every single day?


I suppose this isn’t a poem. It doesn’t rhyme, it doesn’t chime, it doesn’t have the capacity to tell you the time. I suppose that the sentence I just constructed is sort of a poem.

Sometimes I just sit and listen to the soothing sounds of Richard Dawkins’ voice. I do this because there are days where his voice is the only voice of reason.

That’s all I have to say. Thank goodness for smart men with English accents! 🙂