Fall asleep and dream through it. Nightmares and others pass, some affect and others end with dreaming. And wake and rise in black strange rooms.
It's only night, and it comes to go, for now until the end.
A monstrous plow pushes, whatever came first pushes into that to come, in one great line.
Field to field, from their end to end. If I am not me, I am nobody. If I am only me, I am nothing.
A line, or a tangle of thread, merely.
I call this a line.
And all lines loop and knot should we look away for too long. This Narrative thing-- it is, I feel, our only means to struggle with time. It's the summation we walk home with: all our cause and effects, laid loose as necessities and choices. Narrative is a nervous faced Janus-- one wet mouth to watch memory, one dry mouth to mission-- a conflicted head twisting both at once for a better view.
Within each head Narrative sits guard to the myths that dot our time, it's thread touching each point backward and then draping loosely onward, on to the next.
