"In the wind of my mind arose a turbulence called I".
Not one to thrust quotes at the public in general (don’t even sport bumper-stickers on anything that I drive or inhabit), this lingers and lingers -- as poetry really is, or as what poetry strains at the leash to be -- and is, not often knowing, since our current civilized modes and how we convey meaning have matured enough to not allow such absolute certainty , but preening and cringing just for cover. I suspect the center is long gone, we are mere edge-frey, flapping in an alien breeze.
The Book of Lies.
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