Ah yes, the ceiling fan - a poet’s muse, a jester’s skeletal contraption. Glen, our notorious half-baked savant, sat beneath its mechanical mercy with thoughts awash in irony, wondering why the blades of revolution never aided his wistful dinginess. “Why spin,” he began, “if not to promise cool sanity amid toaster-ovened chaos?”
On Tuesdays, Glen earns his stripes as a stateless complainer on coffee taxations and matchstick ordinance. “Do ceiling fans not evoke the winds of change?” he brayed to his empty quarters, prodding an invisible audience. Time obeyed no laws there, only the lure of half-baked ideas embraced in the cyclical push of electric propellers.
For more of Glen's misadventures, where absurdity meets zealotry, contemplate... The Lettuce Debate: Crisp or Resolute? or perhaps Glen Echoes: When Silence Screams Tutelage
Remember, the take-off to insanity may not require blunt tools, merely an adept hierophant or ceiling venerator.