Just after

The fact that we laugh is miraculous. By definition. It is without explanation. Rooted in social access and communication. But then again, a lot of things have roots and still fail to make a lot of sense. Like flowers. Like the assumption of dominance latent in power. Like sympathy. And expectations. And crabapple trees. A certain level of ignorance required for its existence. Caught off guard but only in the most forgivable way. Laughing. Offended. Off ended. Cutting wit, and mended. Blended, audiences and performers and wearing all black and staring contests with soundboards and burping lager chicken. It’s funny. Because it isn’t. Which is actually a requirement. The cost reward duality wrestling within any sentiment. It is miraculous when that sick balance ends in laughter. Which is another peculiarity of miracles. No one thinks to call them that until just after.

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