There is time for cereal-box gazing on weekends, an opportunity to let the cerebral rocks in our boxes clunk and clatter around at will: Call it morning meditation, western-style, you could, something we all do while building a bridge back to this world in the daylight, still halfway mourning our lost dreams.
Today, a bald marketing message hogged a side of the box, hugging the spine of the cardboard rectangle, catching us square on. We stared at the message for some time, steaming our eyes open with hot coffee taken in a huge mug, faces steam-bathed. On the box, someone had cobbled a message, gotten paid real money for it, despite -- or, to spite? -- the deeply-flawed-dumbness of the thing. Perhaps, while we were busy having the most important meal of the day, the cereal makers hoped to blow one right past us, have us not notice it was the least important message we'd see all day or all year.