Puddles; what worlds exist within their diminutive confines. What turbulence or serenity, given which way the wind deigns to flow at any given moment. The greeds and hungers of those dwelling within its microcosm. Are they not too, existing? Though we do not see, though we do not feel, is it not but another universe within a universe? And to those who do not know, there yet may lie in their fate a confluence of energies to which stained pant legs do arise. The retribution of mud upon on textile. The puddle’s microscopic inhabitants finding a new home amongst the fibers until they meet their maker in the howling behemoth of metal and soap suds commonly known as the “washing machine”.
Thank you. Hope this finds you in good spirits and health. Have a great week.