Journal of our Reverberations

Myth is a wound, laceration in the conscience. As if I express my deviousness as fantasy to do away with exile. See that. Slope in the plan/ heap/nova, Bam! Banner year. Begin its smash into witnesses.

And some Insignia or gut reaction, says I should have been, have been, weeping in the laughter's arms

Myth is a mend or if you lie to honor premonition or a lure that ravishes and is endlessly affirmed against everything. In no love story I have ever read is a character ever tired. Fatigue is numbed to infinity. Nimbus, bustling, the sling of your knowing is faster than thinking but sound is thinking's shepherd. Myth is where we rest