the_blades_of_a_ceiling_fan raze when he was a child, he would stare at the ceiling fan and wonder what might happen to his fingers if he could reach out and touch the blades while they were in motion. he would stand where he could feel the gentle movement of air kissing his face, imagining great spinning adventures. whoosh. he grew older and taller, until he found he could reach the fan without much effort. now there was something unnerving in the emotionless logic of its movement, and he lacked the courage to touch the wooden blades for fear they might toss him into some alternate dimension where all he'd been taught was impossible and absurd was no longer so. rational thought told him the fan didn't have enough torque to harm anything in its path. the knotted remnants of his imagination told him something different. he stood were he could feel the movement of air kissing his face. it was less gentle than before. he brought his hands close enough to cool them and knew he would die without ever coming any closer. 130628 what's it to you? who go blather from