This morning I woke up deciding that checkered shirts cause me great offense for projecting a disarming sense of contentment in symmetry through the agency of the final frontier of human representation that is the bodily form. If it be only for one glorious momentary lapse of perspective, I would assume the role of the checkered shirt's variegator and confer disrupting strokes upon its texture, like flying vapor sieving through the night sky. But for the now and present, in the dark recesses of my mind, I hear the cynical and taunting sniggers of the checkered shirt as it makes plain its vision for order, and contempt for diametric thought.


But I should get a life and not be stirred by - checkered shirts.