OK, so an enigma is something you can't figure out. Something really mysterious and riddling. An entangling web. An M.C. Escher drawing. A work of early American literature. You know, the 1600's in America. No answers. The Scarlet Letter. Roger Chillingworth. Rip Van Winkle. The Catskills. Edgar Allen Poe. Need I say more? No answers. Enigmae.
Dayna, I think you sold me. I think you leaned me the right way. Don't think about it. Don't listen to it. Just put it out of your mind; just think of something else.
But y'all don't realize how difficult that is. Y'all don't -- oh, nevermind.
O mystery, where is mine elixir?
O enigma, where is mine escape?
Maybe the reason I don't get caught up in most of the classical music I listen to, is that I can't really speak the language of most of the classical music I listen to. But then I'm not sure I can speak Martina McBride's language, either. Maybe that's what's so mind-boggling about Mrs. McBride.
Time to get a drink. No, no, not that kind of drink. Not liquor. Just a cup of strong coffee.
And forgive me for mentioning M.C. Escher. He's not the kind of art to dig into. I don't have any use for M.C. Escher. Why should anyone?
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