And she, to me, said "And what of the flowers, the grey sweet smelling flowers, whose petals flutter by my window in the autumn chill - what of them?"
And I knew not of what she spoke.
And to me again, she spoke, saying "And what of the internal combustion engine Simon, where is it going, and how fast, and will it's high pitched whine keep us both company in our twilight years as our bodies rot in the manner of an old athlete?
And still, I had no idea of what she spake.
And I spoke to her, in a quiet but gentle voice, stooped with the wisdom of others beyond my years, saying "What are you on, and where can I get some?"
But she heard me not.
And she turned to her sister, whose face was as pale as the moon through a gap in the clouds of a night sky, and said "Sister! My sister, what of your brother - and mine - whose life's work is but a speck on a speck ON A SPECK in the eye of the creator - NAY, not even that"
And her sister commented that perhaps it was indeed good stuff that she was on, and perhaps we should consult her physician as to how we could obtain some as well.
And so we did.
And she said again to me "And what of the flowers Simon?"
And I spake back unto her and all was well.