One apprehends at last the value of studying the soul. I lost the race and so denied I was racing. It grows dark, then darker, and then what? A crow hops listlessly through the snow, appearing to study its own shadow, which creeps like a bell's shadow before it.
The hunt is itself a metaphysical experience when properly undertaken. Yet judgment - what is right, what is wrong - obscures the truth. We are what we eat? We are what we pursue without reflection.
One lives by appearance and memory and - while drinking coffee and wondering if an old love would succumb to a letter - questions the wisdom of it. Metronomes are no help at all! One sips raw vinegar mixed with honey, one recalls suddenly a dream of trout beneath phosphorescent ice in winter. Robert Johnson multiplied thusly.
Intensified? The puzzle of you deepens because it's the best way to keep you busy. Clouds cover up the ground. For three years running now, nobody visits the grave, and we are all a little disappointed and we are all a little chagrined.
Falsity commingled with narrative yields what impulse? You call to that part of me that yearns to be called. We learn trust by trusting. One day you know the sphere without reference to space and that's it, it's over.
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