Grandmas sit in chairs and reminisce; Boys keep chasing girls to get a kiss.
 
Our world bathes in a bathtub of numbers.  A family of ten little digits, zero though nine, make for a most dominant dynasty.  Ten symbols, one of which holds striking resemblance to a headless snowman, are the foundation of all quantitative reasoning.  They are dense little critters, with a power to ink ratio far greater than their alphabetic counterparts.  We found them first in nature before teaching ourselves the craft of their creation.  Just as the robin counts its hatchlings as it rations out the freshly pouched worm or the machinist taps though his ten fingers in blessing that his day's work didn’t rob him of a digit or the way my grandmother thumbed through her rosary with the tactical awareness and dexterity of a seasoned blackjack dealer, everyone at a young age learns numbers, in counting, math, pattern recognition and weight.
 
What we forget is numbers hold a depth we often do not appreciate, the long tail of each’s black and white tuxedo stretch deep into and wrap out the back door of the page on which they are written or the speech bubble in which they are chirped.  In red impressions, a tattoo grade sits indelibly atop of our high school history test, but is not the retention of knowledge something best scored after the opportunity for its recall and use?  Our heart rate displays in digital marquise cuts on our 21st century watch faces, but do we forget we are all preset with a fixed number of beats to fuel us in this life?  We pay our rent but forget that service is the true rent we pay for existence on this planet.  We are the company we keep, and that goes for the number we choose to invite in and hang out in our memory’s parlor.  A single asteroid impacting earth is best described in the beauty of the bed of diamonds it creates on collision just as a single kiss is best measured in the fire that spark will start.
 
When you count your blessings, make sure to count the good ones twice.
 
The cars keep going faster all the time, Bums still cry, "Hey buddy, have you got a dime?"
And the beat goes on…