This is not a house of passion.
Posing and posturing are kept to a domestic minimum in this house and tantrums are met with tantrums that rise and rise and shake first the walls then the foundations but by bedtime there is cooing.
There is forgiveness.
The hostility, such as existed, is spent and calmer winds prevail.
This house can offer no wisdom.
Friends and those who pay visit are misguided in taking that deceptive path. There are no Sophists here. There are merely name dropping carnies and when the dust settles, I am more than happy with this nom de guerre dans cette mondial ordinaire.
Wisdom is for those who know, for those who see, for those who can walk a straight line without stumbling every few yards, for those who are nimble of mind and quick of conclusion, for those who harbour self-serving division all the while enucleating all that is humanity, and for their opposite numbers.
There is no wisdom here.
I'll be your baby tonight.
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