And hello to Joyce, chooser of sounds, and to a simpler Hemingway post shotgun blast. Why music artists sing la la la la la la The cat in a tree next to Tweedle Dee. A bird non-stop saying me, me, me. A dog on the lookout for changes in scenery. All the noise that’s fit …
The world is always this bright. The colors are always there. Clouds or no clouds. Wind or none. Can you write a softer symphony? Paint in pinks and aquas? An animal finds itself a god outside the play of life. It wants to save itself despite the fact that its peril is part of the …
And the most absurd of things. . . She pretends to broker bits of the Earth, as if she could receive money for trading the planet from stranger to stranger. And he pretends to know truth or beauty or some other such absurdity by putting colors on a canvas. And she pretends to fix the …
“What are you afraid of?” he asks her. She doesn’t know but will say something like spiders or social ostracism. And he relents. “Obscurity.” “But that’s what you’ll always return to,” says I. “Even after a hero’s journey.” “You’ll always return to nothing. And there is no such thing as legacy. Adulation, respect and immortal …
Would you trade nothing for everything? What is really yours? Say truth now. Past and future? Those were never yours. A chattering mind? That’s a maybe. A fear of being the wrong idea to others. Of not being anything, ever, forever. Of futility. That’s a known thing. Would you trade your chattering mind for acceptance …
