And what a week it will be, well, it already is!

The sky, in its blue imitation of infinity, will shower nonsense poetry into the heads of all those of a mind to heed it.  There are some wonderful sounds to be had this week: words like gumdrop, pernickety, codswallop, and shiny, mixed with a good amount of rumble, trickster, riot and grouch.  By tomorrow, you will have ears as big as open doors, flapping to catch all the good things to hear.  By Wednedsay, this infection will have swept through your friends, causing spontaneous outbreaks of poetic proselytising and moments of pure genius buried amongst the sheer, teeming volume of words pouring out of every known orifice.  By Thursday, you will have ridden the hump of it, now with time on your hands to murmur the occasional, unbidden haiku as you side-saddle your way to Friday, when, all tuckered out, you make camp in a room empty of all words, where the tweets of birds and trees twirling in the wind remind you of the silence that belies all language and leaves you simple, sated, serene, sssh.