I Want You To Remember What Was

It Was Like Wondering How Evil Had Come Into The World Or What Happens To A Person After He Dies: An Interesting Philosophical Exercise, But Also Curiously Pointless, Since Evil And Death Happened, Regardless Of The Why And The How And What-it-meant.

Fantasy Was Always Only A Reality Waiting To Be Switched On.

Who Knows What May Lie Around The Next Corner? There May Be A Window Somewhere Ahead. It May Look Out On A Field Of Sunflowers.

I See God Now As An Unimaginative Writer Of Popular Fictions, Someone Who Builds Stories Around Sadistic And Graceless Plots, Narratives That Exist Only To Express His Terror Of A Woman's Power To Choose Who And How To Love, To Redefine Love As She Sees Fit, Not As God Thinks It Ought To Be. The Author Is Unworthy Of His Own Characters.

All The World Is Made Of Music. We Are All Strings On A Lyre. We Resonate. We Sing Together.