Rounding a corner with The Professor is like sharing cheese with a ghost. The guilt trip's your own pleasure.
He'd barely glanced at the sign, if at all, when he muttered disbelief at the modern day marking of the streets of the city after a person who'd inspired so much death and destruction, to which I said dude's no more responsible for the gulags than that edgy objectivesse for the brutality of United Fruit. Not everyone named Chiquita is a brand-marked terrorist enabler. He thought on this long enough to see my point about the perversion of good intentions, which for Pratt was the duration of the tick before the tock, and said the analogy bordered on no true Scotsman, something he liked to drop in wherever he thought it fit, his analog kidded quarter-proof Scotch himself.
I complained the fallacy camouflages a scary creature of dry stalks of cereal plants, and he said at least the chaff's removed, which I think might've been a comment on the potential misreckoning inherent to the citing of a fallacy and the confusion that abounds whenever someone makes inexplicit a construction or the recognition of one, an observation or an accusation.
It's perfectly fine, even exemplary, to be a master of filling a composition with nuance of raw power yet not be able to swing from a rope even were it hung from the heavens by the coach of creation. No amount of the big money can afford that wily watchmaker’s wares, let alone grasp what one’s reward whispers not to. Still, the beat was always solid and the words were moving pictures.
Knowing of his aversion to in-his-face sentimentality, I apologized when I told him I’d probably feel a heart-crossing shadow upon the news of his passing. Without thinking he reassured me that was perfectly fine as long as I was aware it wasn't him I was missing.
Fin.
