"What do you love best?" She asked. What an answerless question!

Look at me, all dried out and converted, a sun-bleached fruit, parched of juice and commentary. Curled up with speculation and a ball of un-ginned cotton in my back pocket, and the deepest urge to go and pick the field clean of gleanings. Ancestral memory? Who can say.

Life is occasionally the color of Being Haunted. Oh, the ghosts that follow me! It is not so simple as that thing they talk about-- "letting go." You can't really make the ghosts let go of you.

O, but there is a polite boy, a fire, a problematic book, and a thousand un-penned treatises longing for an unbuilt Alexandria. Songs on the nature of battle, man, the soul, natural sciences, the Troll, jewelry infected with magic, men in black hats, the Children of the Days of the Week, Prophetesses, evil wizards, and more than that, pages.

Legions.

<<agé chose>>

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