The Thing of the Way of Things

For every stylish, black skivvy-clad Bohemian artist, there is a white cat somewhere growing a single white hair that will drift through the air, and on to the stylish black skivvy of the Bohemian artist, marring their silent air of suave sophistication.

For every sleek, modern owner of the swish, modern house, walking about their environs at night after the shower in their cool white towel, there is a tap somewhere with a tiny smudge of black grease, which smudge will somehow find its way to the sleek, modern finger of the sleek, modern owner of the etc, and which will find its way from that finger to the cool white towel, and cause the world to seem just that little bit less sleek, and swish to the owner, who will reflect upon life with slightly more gloom in the future.

For this is the Way of Things.