a resting place or two

The soaring languors of stupidity, so similar to the smug lassitudes of intelligence, can loll and linger in the summer heat, waiting as in some Falkner novel for a combustion that will lift all camouflage as an evening's entertainment nears -- a lynching, perhaps, at which grown men will delight.

The possibilities of intelligence say nothing about putting those possibilities to the test, but it is nice to think they exist and might show themselves in an altered reality.

Stupid or smart -- the contentment either might afford is pleasant as the glass of lemonade sweats.