Suffocating in congregations with little insight

Bessy was hard at work sticking all the molecules of air together in the back garden with superglue, when I emerged from my slumber. She gets so far and creates quite a mass of immovable air, and then begins to suffocate and gives up. Margaret looks forward to these days as she is forced to re-ventilate Bessy with bellows and it tickles her to see Bessy inflate and, if bellowed enough, to float. I attached a piece of string to Bessy's leg before I left, just in case Margaret forgets.

Felix lived in a water molecule for a period, he tells me, and charted its journey around the world. He had started in this very spot and, some three months later, returned to it. I asked if water molecules congregated, like humans, in particular places that meant something to them. Felix said that he knew for a fact that the molecules I kept excreting from my bladder, were always anxious to return. I considered my cup of tea and sniffed it a couple of times, but Felix reassured me that, like humans, water would always morph to suit the conditions.

George once won a competition in which the participants had to morph themselves into the shape of any object they liked so long as it was a teacup. George, being spectacular at this sort of thing, chose to be a teacup with a broken handle. It had some significance to a relationship he had at the time, but he won't say any more than that. The judges wept and awarded him first prize. I asked today if he might be able to re-morph into a teacup with handle glued back on. He replied that the past is the past, and there's no repairing what is broken.

After that sad bit of conversation, I found Mr Pillywiggle - he of the jaded sense of humour if the light's not right - discussing with Cookie the reflection of an insight he had just had, on the surgery window. I couldn't see a reflection and suggested we get on with placing his beautiful new crown. Cookie was, though, staring at a reflection with her mouth wide open. I asked her to describe it. She said it was of a man spinning on a ladybird whilst singing about a merry cow. I asked both of them what this insight was. Cookie said we didn't have to understand insights, just to appreciate that someone had had one. Mr Pillywiggle seemed perfectly happy with this vote of confidence. I guess the light was right.

So it seems that whilst one might have little insight, one can still appreciate unglued objects in life, even if said objects, when congregated, change their shape. I've got to talk to Felix about that.