And the various other phenomena connected with mesmeric action

Until I found that the last flinch of the flame backs into the idea like a dove, if you trust it/few trust it.  You plug your mother into her dove position and wake up thinking about the transmigration of our myths: Dionysus, Shakti, Lil Kim, and write a book about it until it dances in negligent trios, eyes scanning the audience for my one and only love. The first page is just glare, written in the dove's value: whiteness and witness/blank and loaded. Is it a spy. Is she a spy. Reporting back to the perfect language in which every energy has its own special term. And our role is to be those terms so well we no longer need them. Abstractions overcoming themselves in order to see themselves and then turning the mirror into a tunnel and then the victory is somewhere between me and me like everything else is  and the probe is the archetype and the vessel is the myth  and the best myth is reality, and I made it, I made this for you. I can tell how much you love your mother