Oh but it’s nothing personal. I am simply a loon, a loner, a lover of the pure empty. To rage, to linger, to exclaim; all arise from the nostalgia of a place that no longer exists. To yearn is to hope for a return. To yearn is to live adorned in the futility of life. To yearn is to fight the way of grace, which threatens to expel from my being the last filaments of ego. Hold on. Hold on tight. The ride is just beginning. The world is a flame and I wish only to sit at its center. To wither and dissipate back. To the original place. The primordial kettle. The womb. The Mother Goddess had a hysterectomy. There is no going back. But excuse me if darker impulses do surface in my writing. They’ve nothing to do with you, dear reader-whoever you are. They’ve only to do with my own desire to swim upstream in a heavy southerly current. 


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