This piece is a follow-on to a short story posted a few days ago here, and it will make less sense if you have not read the other. It described some inner experiences upon ingesting mescalin half a century ago. That piece was a work of fiction, although obviously possessing a strong autobiographical content. Here, however, I am trying to reason some specific points. What is imagined and what is not, and how do we know?
For fellow Scorpio suns, this goodbye November prayer. I commiserate with you all. Aren’t we terrible?
How I longed once to know you without clothing. Grace me then the tact to embrace you without bodies…
Who weighs life pragmatically, and who lets Romanticism hold sway, and what craft of divine providence sees value in their clashing?
Accountants have a great deal to unlearn, when it comes to a spiritual tallying of relationships…
||skirmishes|| ||with|| ||reality|| 