Every hat is a cannibal
Every hat is a thief
All hats kill their inspiration and sing about the grief
Every hat is a thief
A multitude of hats leaps from place to place, from house to house, from star to star and spin on carnival merry-go-rounds, climb fire escapes of burning windmills and lean on windowsills all the time yak yak yakking the facts and memories and anecdotes and hugs and kisses of the party God gives them.
In the desert there is no sign that says, thou shalt not eat hats.
I like my hat when it is with your hat. It is so quite new a thing. Shape better and ribbons more.
Even as a cow wearing a hat, she is lovely.
I keep my hat on when all about me are losing theirs
The hat is my North, my South, my East and West, my Sunday best, my moon, my walk, my song. I thought my hat would last forever. I was wrong.
Poor old lady she swallowed a hat to catch the word, she swallowed the word to catch the wider, she swallowed the wider to catch the why…I don’t know why she swallowed the why, poor old lady I think she’ll die
I said, “I don’t think.”
“Then you shouldn’t talk” said the hat.
I said, “Have I gone mad?”
The hat said, “You’re entirely bonkers. All the best people are.”
I asked, “Why is a cockatoo like a pot of tea?”
The hat said, “I give up. What’s the answer?”
I replied, “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
And as it turns out, I do not take the trips. The trips take me.
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“The wide world is all about you: you can fence yourselves in, but you cannot forever fence it out.” J.R.R. Tolkien