|The tallest one in the back row would be Max.|
A sweeter pile since taking it all at this past long, hot weekend's soccer tournament (yes, for this is why the Suburban Soliloquist packed--whilst sipping a glass of white with KW). Their energy, though nearly exhausted at the final, earned them the championship. And it was, overall, you might say, I high voltage weekend.
This is another atomic pile:
An atom-smashing force. But in case you are not familiar with the muse, a secret: she is one combustible chain reaction of I-don't-know-whats mingled with when-to-expects?, and often the encounters are altogether foreign, alien (except in controlled environments having limited variables and distinct parameters--or is it perimeters?). Nevertheless, she's highly efficient.
It could be said that most teams, most relationships, no matter the sort, are atomic piles if carefully built and efficient in the maintenance, control and expenditure of energy.
Spent is how the Suburban Soliloquist felt upon returning from the dramatic collection and subsequent fission of boys in colorful uniforms skirring across the turf fields of central Connecticut. Which is why she appears here, today, with little news other than that of piles. Laundry, dishes, bills, emails, appointments, etc., all of which are slowly being dismantled or dispersed, or, um, better yet, delegated.
And here—not to be outdone by the Italian physicist Enrico Fermi, atomic piles expert extraordinaire—is John Hodgman, the marshmallow wrapped in hugs (aha, that's an atomic pile), sharing some universal truths.
On atomic piles and alien encounters...
(It's well worth the eighteen minutes of energy you are about to expend.)
Make of that what you will, but take note of alien encounters and piling atoms about you.