In layering stories, weaving plots, and tying together subplots over decades, one has the itch to share a few secrets every now and then, planting clues in old poems and short stories, repetitious use of words as Morse code to set a rhythmical, mystical trail for a few to follow the satirical setting, the rest to brush aside this hints, obvious or subtle, in light reading of throwaway fiction.

And to get the author to ignore the wrinkles that won’t go away in the thinning skin wrapping digits pounding first mechanical and then electrical typewriters, leading to keyboards attached to homemade computers and finally to laptop computers that fall apart into phabletised gesture control and voice recognition just before thought reading and writing turns narratives into multiple, simultaneous tales spread directly across whole central nervous systems rather than just a few sensory organs for input/output stimulation.

The resultant ploy: reality disappears into the noise floor — everyone’s dreams, wishes, fantasies, and wherewithals prevail.  Make a wish.  Dream a dream.  We’ll make it all come true for me and you.

Rosie Profane live at Flying Monkey or Black Jacket Symphony reenacting AC/DC’s Back in Black after a dose of Pixar’s “Brave,” for instance.

When national politics has lost its appeal and less than 40% are listening to repeating parrots parodying each other, when no candidate has any chance of getting one’s vote, one turns one’s attention to more pedestrian treats to quench one’s tastes, no matter how high or low they appear.

Simple plots hide complex cynicism draped across cryptic tombstones and bestsellers are rarely the best literature available but, most of the time for most of us, suffice.

Simple Simon met a pieman and became a computer game.

Between fear and love became a book.