The Bright Well

Hearing the first notes of the show with the blue Corsairs was prelude to our scramble and we gathered in front of the TV set for adventures in archipelagoes. 'Matchbox' kits, we bought,  and we  loved to play  with the little models in our hands, our lips roaring or spitting some wet munitions. Black sheeps squadron. And we never missed a show were we could go and smell the vaporized oil of the birds of fire on the tarmac. September and school had just beginned, behind the Skyraider, Cyrille and I, had a lot of smoke, a lot of wind and Mum would say, a lot of dark oil spots turning my kaki jacket to some undetermined color jacket. Never mind, the star engine or the R-engine I love to hear. Bent wings gave the corsairs such a capacity and made them stable platform for their fireworks engineery. Supermarine spitfire turned like noone until the Mustang arrived. Emil was quite a good buddy, but Gustav, he, loved to hide in the sun.  Corsairs, Boyington's guys might have been called, seen from clouds, but never they were Pirats.

Love me tender, love me true.

Thinking is a question of culture in terms of method. Let me explain. Progression.
Learning is a process that implies that you create some new connections within your brain, modifying your DNA, in the same time. Those connectors and the relationship that is build between two points of your grey cells is analogy. "Sun is good": Connection between the sun synapse and one connected to feeling of happyness for exemple.  For most western people. In the South, there are also some connectors with danger, water shortage, related to the sun connector.  So when I go to analogy, I consider some new knowledge, something new for me, is similar to some previous knowledge I had.
 Strange. My first impression should be the right one, otherwise, I'll have a root connector generating some electromagnetic field preventing me from seeing reality as it is, out of the cave.
 And that is a big problem, that the process of knowledge, related to connectors, is using some organic substance we're addicted to. The things we know makes us feel comfortable. Unknown, alien (I' ve heard this today, Hi Lisa Ripley!) ideas or things are inducing some disturbance within one's brain and the more specialized is a human being, the more intolerant he is, (see Annah Arendt and her cover of trial). 
Sex is natural, sex is good, yes Ma'am, and furthermore, it enables human being to go further than appearances and fast-food plates. I dislike frozen food, I eat fresh vegetables , and the precooked, when not predigested food, I won't be dirty enough to ask my pet to eat it.
Back to progression, western mind is using linear, tree progression when other cultures might use circular connections. What difference does it make? A Big one, Ma'am!  On your left , tree, root and branches with priority, on your right circles with deduction and the lack of preview. 
Two minds, two schools, and Historians belong to the second, whether they be New Orlans D.A. or Berkeley Teacher (Uncle Frankie !). First question is the objective description. Never a subjection, as the word states it itself: behind under the influence of.

Froggies just can't write another language properly. From the well's inn, so small the blue sky.  Anyway, servers in Boulder would get it. Not the half of it. The litchi in the tree was showing his red face. In the sealed flask, marshes and rebels. What if you call my name once opened? Mine flask is the sister of your. So, it's beautiful. Forgot to tell, who's on first? Noone! Pranked by Abbott. You know , the white one from the North. Look his lips, the stormy Duke. No, it's not a video game. He's indian. Won't you stop it, Custer? Colonel, over there, there are many Indians... Oh, you know men, I forgot. Please, ride... Don't forget you pale silk scarf! Garlic is his name. Adorable. 

Tataglia was still having his pasta with the chief of the walkers at his table. Then , stood up the host of so many honorable men in their Tuxedo: " And now, if you please, Mr Darcy will take you for a ride on the back of his bais! Horsemen, follow me!" "Stricly bussiness", murmured the Italian who didn't leave his table. Mr Kent was writing his notes and feeling his flying underwear itchy-scratchy. Mongolians had their own poneys and own saddles. Mr Lawrence, of course,  had his  brown  vessel of Akaba. And friends were excited for such a night. Mrs Garland was all at her Mr Gable. Mr Jeffries didn't want to tell about her. Jack Renaud was bookmaking. And Saki? Saki was enjoying this fellowship. They crossed the river and for the first time during the last fifty years, there were five white swans cruising on the waters. It reminded of the black one, seen on the first page of a novel. But far more beautiful, the five of them. Cassandra whispered something and Mr Julia, from the noble house of the antique family, for he had some members of the roman college dedicated to the reading of bird flights in his ancesters' tree, told it was a good omen, obviously.  If you were there, 'that night, you could hear the horseguards charge' and the little spoons and forks tumble. Right hand! York was at his witch burning after a duck was brought. William and Adso were not fond of those fires, too much similars to the South: the girl didn't follow the fraticelli. Aristotle, lost one of his book, and simply added, "why then, we shall smile..."  . Naturally, it ended at the Tourelles and one for one, each of them with his beloved, fall asleep in the twister of night with its white stars, equations and words. The man in black suit froze the picture, the show has began and another dimension has opened.