The trouble with snails is not their transparent pretext of a head and body. It's their twirling house of brittle stone. " Why build? " the treader in the dirt must ask. When not confined inside the shell, he stares at the world through green cages of sharpened blades. Yet, somehow, the snail is free: freer than the firebird.
Erratic flickers of stern candlelight dot randomly the jailed rambunctious valley beneath revealing ice. An arc of sheer time, the humming din of silence, muffled concatenated thoughts, self-weaving meshes of tiny teardrop diamonds. Dim lit towns stretch disciplined in squared patterns, in deep oblivion that they don't belong in the original immensity of brush, boulders, long grass, and dust. Fields of living will wedding a trusting earth.
The rustle of a carry-on unmasks concealed intents. Forget the good neighbor, meet the nurse of worse, fully equipped to spread maleficence at best. Man's incurable pest? A sister of mercy and a ring of bad intents. Memento GM.
Rites of spring... Firebird... Barber and Britten....the music of another season. Long forgotten crispy days of fall. The color of youth, the unrestrained imminence of good, casting over the world like curtains of silver rain and pearls, when time is gained, regained and never lost.
The trouble with words is that they don't obey, at best delay, and obfuscate. They are sisters of mercy, too, in a rigged game to brightly color the immaculate and dull the shine and sharpness of a rusty sword. Memento Reading. Back to Reading.
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