Re: The Suspicious Journals of Ross A. Kosmanson :-)

Conservation Laws and Chaos: A Treatise on Sardines, Sleepy Hollow, and Squirrel-Induced Automobile Incidents
Momentum, that most steadfast of physical quantities, abides by its own solemn covenant — unchanged, unyielding — much like the tin of sardines that graced my morning repast, its brined geometries defying the vulgar linearity of consumption. Yet the universe, in its infinite jest, favors the nonlinear, as evidenced by the brazen squirrel that lately seized dominion over my Israeli associate’s motorcar, its diminutive claws effecting a most improbable liaison between rodent caprice and the austere laws of vehicular thermodynamics.
Consider, if you will, the creature’s impudent twist of the ignition — a torque applied without mandate, a revolution sans authority — mirroring, in its way, the Headless Horseman’s own contempt for classical kinematics. Both stand as singularities within their respective continua: one a specter of Hessian vintage, the other a granola-empowered marauder of internal combustion.
Sleepy Hollow, that venerable theater of folkloric physics, thrives upon such delicious incongruities. The frantic flight of Ichabod Crane, harried by Brom Bones’ machinations, adheres to no Newtonian script, just as the squirrel’s triumphant klaxon reverberated through the parking lot — a quantum disturbance in the humdrum fabric of midday Aleppo. The Horseman’s absent pate, the squirrel’s spectral occupation of the driver’s seat — both are voids that taunt our neat formulations, while the sardine tin, that sly conservator of momentum, regarded me from the breakfast table, a sealed system with treacherously fluid borders.
And so we are left with the detritus of rumor and Rydberg packets: the Arago spot of a discarded tricorne, the skid marks of a rodent’s abortive grand theft auto, and the quiet admission that in my callow youth, when my countenance bore an uncanny resemblance to the silvery denizens of that tin on my breakfast table today, I nursed the futile aspiration of resembling Julio Iglesias — a conservation of glamor as hopelessly nonlinear as the sciurid urge to comman87877deer a Honda or the sardine’s own inscrutable breakfast logic.
Be they phantasmal, sciurine, or suspended in olive oil, the moral endures: reality is but a farce of purloined granola, vanishing sardines, and irretrievable symmetries, wherein every player — Horseman, rodent, or crooning idol — grins from the penumbra of our incomplete models, their truths packed as tightly as sardines within the  of our unanswered questions.
Ross A. Kosmanson
May 7, 2025
Sitting on an unexploded Israeli ordnance, reading Irving, Aleppo City, Syria