Cast your peepers at this gem —> and dare to tell me it’s not pure poetry. So the hair, they say, is the boundary twixt False and True.
Oh goody, I’ve often wondered … and now it’s your turn to wonder—as in this shot of a particular boundary: what the hell is it?
Give up? Already?
Then we’ll move on …
For my next wonder I’ve also pondered the thickness of the surface of water. (Don’t giggle, dammit! That’s a serious wonderment.)
How thick is the surface of water?
Does it matter if it’s hot water or cold water? Is duck-pond water thicker than that of ultra-chlorinated purified decontaminated regurglised sanitised Splash Palace in Invercargill?
… the surface forms the boundary between air and many wetnesses worldwide, great and small; kitchen-sink wetnesses and the oceans.
On those half-and-half photographs where the camera is semi-submerged the surface looks quite thick. Is it, though, or is that just a delusive illusion caused by the surface wetting the glass of the lens?
I’ve (hopefully) ruined your day, once more cast those same peepers upon that snap above which I took the other day in Queens Park, standing with legs almost astride a wee duck puddle … whatever else it does, grubby water surfaces make a good boundary twixt two worlds (just ask any tadpole).
How ’bout this, then … the boundary mandated by the state and enforced by the good offices of razor wire and old fashioned blocks—
—to ensure that bad lads are no longer free to prey upon We, The Compliant. So the boundary created by the hand of
Man Per divides the false and the true … but the schlogg of old plastic bag blown by the vagaries of the wind couldn’t care less. So not all boundaries are set in stone, even when they’re set in stone.
(Bugger~! I just bit my tail …)