Norsk

Why storm of fools, you ask...well it sounds poetic, doesn't it? I had read it someplace, but...I had forgotten everything about where the words came from but the words themselves. Picture this... You're walking among hundreds of people. All of them, you included, are crammed into a parkinglot in some small town. Volunteers funneled through rows of carnival games to either side. The sound of roulette wheels spinning and rings being tossed onto empty bottles, and the smell of popcorn and some kind of on a stick. It's electrifying. ...Up ahead you spot a small tent with...a warm purple glow seeping out from deliberately open slits in the canvas. Enticing. Do you go in? Inside is a crystal ball and a middle aged gypsy that will read your palm...for a fee. It sounds compelling, and you relax as she traces her long mysterious finger over the creases on your hand. She'll tell you some gibberish, of course, but it's all in good fun. So tell me, Is that you? Do you want to taste the flavour and smell the aroma? And can you do all this while secretly doing that thing that people like us do with our tongues? ...stick it in our cheeks...

Leo