Contrary to what I may have heard through the grapevine below your window, not every white paper is a suitable replacement for the colorful news, weather, and sports delivered in virtual real time by youngsters who have nowhere to go but up, assuming Mars hasn't dropped below the horizon before the final countdown begins.
Reading between the lines below the fold proves that the trials and errors that pass for news are only fumes in the teapot, and should not be taken internally before the gas has been allowed to cool. This is not to say that a similarly tempestuous cooling period contributed to our naked ancestors' demise, before clothing burst into the limelight, and occasionally at the seams. Rather, an appropriate phrase would consist of proper nouns and their improper counterparts, leaving quarter notes to fill the white space left behind by shifting tectonic plates below my pressroom, where stability really counts.
Indeed, less is often more, evidenced by the nomenclature used to signify equality, although sometimes it's the other way around. Odd Thursdays are the exception to the rule, leaving the colonists to settle their differences the old-fashioned way, but not everyone has a duke at his disposal. Like a plumber on overtime, the gloves come off before the light goes on, leaving opposable thumbs to declog, demuck, and demystify the reversible threads that confound royalty and plainclothes workers alike, for these are not your father's pipes. If they were, you would have inhaled by now.
Having reached the age of habituation, it's easy to take my surroundings for granted. A tree is still a tree, a hydrant is a hydrant, and the clouds are where they've always been, though they seem darker now. To avoid further complacency, I believe the time has come to take my surroundings with a grain of salt, questioning the certainties that frame my worldview, and cleaning the peephole I use to spy on the little terrorist across the hall. 
