Clowns, Snails, and Perhaps A Toad

May I introduce the Elite of The Elites who run Soybean Island:

















Hah. Who would know if these are the actual Elite of the Elites . . . I certainly would not.

Though it could be this:



Though most likely--in all reality, which is a large sum of reality--it is not.


No, winter is now upon us. Upon me. Upon this wretched little island. And once again, my own sanity is in question.

Yes.

Reality? Sanity?

One may ask if I am sane. I would not blame you. Has this island driven me so? Or was I not sane to begin with?

It is okay to ask such questions. Fine and dandy. But if you too were brought here despite your wishes, against your will, and lived here, breathing the agricultural and incarcerated atmosphere, here, then I hypothesize that you too would question your own sanity. And the sanity of all who live here. And reality, to boot.

Speaking of boots--here is a snail:



Soybean Island Snail. Fighting Snail. Transcendental Snail.

Are here is a workshop rendition of said snail(s):



A second rendition:




Art!


And speaking of snails fashioned out of hardware, here is a toad:




Hah! And they call me insane!

Yes, yes. Are there really Snailians and Eye-Nye-Habs and Elites and Prisoners and The Apparatus? Do you--dear non-reader--doubt any of it? Does it matter? Should it matter, if you are living in the free world and have a roof over your head and food in your cabinets and can rely on a modicum of justice? Hmm? And will I run out of question marks?

Well, this is where I am. All questions are but moot points. I am a moot point--one of billions of points in a sea of moots.

And winter is just beginning . . .


Goodbye from Soybean Island