The Mysterious Does Not Spell Itself Out

Only In Dreams, In Poetry, In Play Do We Sometimes Arrive At What We Were Before We Were This Thing That, Who Knows, We Are.

In Quoting Others, We Cite Ourselves.

Memory Weaves And Traps Us At The Same Time According To A Scheme In Which We Do Not Participate: We Should Never Speak Of Our Memory, For It Is Anything But Ours; It Works On Its Own Terms, It Assists Us While Deceiving Us Or Perhaps Deceives Up To Assist Us.

Time Is Born In The Eyes, Everybody Knows That.

We No Longer Believe Because It Is Absurd: It Is Absurd Because We Must Believe.