Our
little Christmas tree sits in an empty room. It's tiny lights shine
peacefully for no one. Our Vicky sits in a hospital room. Her
uncomprehending propensity wishes to be with her Christmas tree, to
gaze at it's peaceful tiny lights, to be at home where the familiar
offers an anchor for the mind.
So
us being somewhat impulsive, we pack up that little Christmas tree in
a wimpy green garbage bag and head off across the street, that avenue
which divides the scourge of Winterpeg from the upper class elites
who perambulate the halls of the elixirs of the gods. Down through
the maze of snaking tunnels who entangle a labyrinth of vents and
pipes and cables which amazingly find their way to a destination
where their usefulness is appreciated we saunter, ever wary of those
security guys in their speedy little go carts who roam these
subterranes, ever on the watch for infidels carrying wimpy green
garbage bags.
We
artfully circumvent capture to reach the fountainhead of elevator
clamour and are whisked up to the fourth floor of one of the towers
of respite where our Vicky desponds. Luckily the nursing station is
deserted as we sneak down the long hall to the end room. Safely in
the room our Vicky sees us and grins from ear to ear. She would
think something was terribly wrong if we weren't up to some sort of
misadventure, so it is no surprise as we unveil her little Christmas
tree, setting it nobly on her window ledge and of course, we have to
plug it in.
Now
let us consider a generalized impulse control model for controlling a
process governed by a stochastic state of affairs. The controller
can only choose a parameter of the probability distribution of the
consequence of his control action which is therefor random. There
may be undesired results relating to the input scenarios of
quasi-variational inequalities. These results will be a viscosity
solution of the quasi-variational inequalities which could lead to
unforeseen developments.
So,
we plugged in that little Christmas tree and for a moment it shone so
peacefully lighting up our Vicky's smiling face. The room grew
peaceful as the angels of heaven all smiled their love down from
above. But there began a wee murmur from the bed beside us. It
grew, horribly. Panic and fear gripped the environs. It is said the
screams were heard through the concrete floors far up above. Ever
heard of christougenniatiko dentrophobia,
that ghastly
fear of misshapen Christmas tree branches casting long twisted
shadows and clutching at you with prickly needle-like fingers: pine
pitch, bone-white dried fir, and spruce tar with opoponax and
blackened tobacco, who knew?
Well.
Some quasi form of virtual reality must not be adhered to when life
takes such a turn. We must grasp that impulse control model by the
horns and create a rock solid scenario of face saving developments a
little less viscid. To be loaded on board along with our peaceful
little Christmas tree on a speedy little go cart and hauled off to
the remotest corner of the subterranes to be thrown nonchalantly into
the dungeons sealed from media and artful lawyers was not our cup of
tea. Yes, we opened that window wide and dropped that peaceful
little Christmas tree four stories to it's demise before you could
blink your eye. When the matrons arrived we were calmly seated
beside our Vicky comforting her anxious outpourings with a hug.
Impetuousness jilted we went discerningly back to curing despondency
one little smile at a time.
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