Dear Diary, It spins. Day and night, without ceasing, the ceiling fan continues its endless rotations above this humble dwelling. To the av...
Dear Diary,
It spins.
Day and night, without ceasing, the ceiling fan continues its endless rotations above this humble dwelling. To the average onlooker—Barry, for example—it is merely an appliance, a tool for cooling. But to me, Dale T. Doll, it is so much more.
The fan is a cosmic clock, marking the passage of time, the ever-repeating circle of life—or, perhaps, the impending spiral into doom. Its blades slice through the air, as if whispering secrets that only I can hear. Secrets of destiny.
Barry, as always, remains oblivious. While he lounges beneath the fan, reading books and listening to jazz, I sit transfixed, contemplating its greater meaning. Each rotation speaks to me, an enigmatic language that I alone am attuned to. Could it be warning us of an impending disaster? Or perhaps it spins to mock the futility of our efforts to control our existence.
The cat—Not My Cat—slinks into the room, her eyes darting toward the fan for a fleeting moment before she moves on. Is she in on it? Does she, too, know the truth but refuses to share it? Cats are such enigmatic creatures, after all, their motives shrouded in mystery.
I attempted to share my revelations with Barry today. I posed a simple question: “Does it ever stop spinning?” He stared at me blankly, as he always does, before muttering something about needing to dust the fan blades. Humans, it seems, are incapable of grasping the grandeur of the unseen.
And so, I am left alone with my thoughts, pondering the fan’s eternal rotations. Is it a beacon of hope or a harbinger of chaos? One day, Diary, I will decipher its secrets. Until then, I shall remain vigilant.
Yours in cosmic curiosity,
Dale T. Doll
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