There should only be a single middle finger on Saint John’s left hand, but with Florence, Lyon, and Bourges combined, there are six of them altogether. Surprised? Even with wine, there is several times as much in harvested grapes for any given production quantity of wine every year, and so it is the truth that one cannot measure all this in formulaic language. Consequently, this cabbage tastes like pencil. And so indeed the hardship of writing a manuscript while licking a pencil is going to differ from staring at the sky while chewing cabbage, but then again the taste should be the same. He has three right-hand ring fingers, six if you count both hands. But there are no thumbs or pinkies, so it all adds up. If the truth cannot be divided neatly, like a circle drawn with a compass, then could it be considered a mistake to feel autumn in a full growth of new leaves, sipping orange juice while gazing at apples? Without knowing where, I feel something here. The universe, so to speak, is a gathering of waste that is respectively out of place, so it’s perfectly natural to guffaw, holding one’s belly and laughing to the point of pain.