The cartwheeling pizza box and the improbables

When the wind kicks up in the desert, in the evening every day, for in the desert wind has no place to hide, so it always whirls about here and there, and riding the wind are the naturals, the tumble weeds, and the unnaturals, the pizza box that came cartwheeling towards me this evening, and in a gesture of desert stewardship, I chased the flapping pizza box until a Joshua Tree put a halt to this absurd exhibition. Thanking the Joshua Tree, I picked up the sun bleached pizza box, I could just make out the printing, "Route 66 Pizza Palace - Barstow" -- a long way from home, this desert cartwheeler. I refolded the pizza box and then tucked it under my arm as I continued my hike. Later, at the monastery, when I was about to deposit the well-traveled pizza box into Bro. Juniper's recycling barrel, I notice some rather sun-bleached handwriting on the lid. On closer inspection, I made out some rather imaginative musings, which I suspect were inspired by not only the pizza, but the also plenty of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.

"We, the improbables, are the only ones left, to write our history of the improbable circumstance we find ourselves in, as best we can, so that in all improbability, some future improbables will look kindly upon our ignorance, just as we hopefully too look kindly upon the ignorance of those we left behind, those who in all probability would be shocked at the improbable outcome of their most probable hopes."