Reason and Rhyme

I see patterns everywhere.
It's a dream, it's a fancy, it is the life of my imagination.
I see the weaving of threads in the passing of days.
I see the links and the breaks, the themes that were not there.
When I miss the detail the pattern dies.
I missed what there was.
So what there is may not make sense.
It isn't meant to, but it might.
There's no guarantee.
In films, the pause too long, the detail too deep.
It's easy.
The pause means this.
The detail will be needed later.
There are no hints in life.
Just every single spinning passing detail of your life.
Eyes ears nose tongue skin.
There is no guarantee of a pattern.
There is no guarantee of sense.
There is no guarantee of a meaning.
But there might be one.
There might be one.

Can you remember what your fortune cookie at New Year said?

I can.
I sat, bemused, as my family and close ones heard of impending wealth, or lucky journeys that would bring happiness. I frowned at my little slip of paper, eating a too-soft cookie. But I remember. It was a detail. It doesn't mean anything. It was a slip of paper in a biscuit, for crying out loud. But still. The words were there. Not a fortune, but a statement. And I remember. Pointless information, stashed away.

Tulip is your lucky flower.

Funny really.