We are a fraction of our ancestors – only a bit more than their division by way of starlight and dust.  This explains our weakness in all manners physical, emotional, spiritual – maybe not spiritual entirely.  Could it be like homeopathy?  Dilute the thing again and again and it becomes something more potent, in a way?  But the clutching at intellectual growth is an ego’s excusing – for magicians once changed forms by way of mirroring and sacrifice and now we clutch dearly to comforts and inmaterial material.  Glen Dawson is proof enough, and your grandmother or father.  Then there’s that young shit with motorcycle and tattoos: a fraud compared.  Even me, not in the mountains, not writing countless novels, not with the woman I love.  Infatuated instead with girls I’ll never speak to, at a loss for magic, drunk at a cowards – crowded bar speaking to no one.  It is as is.  Words of little consequence – less than more of curving q’s and twisting turns.  Make the thing dear beast.  Maybe with a jackal – some lord of death, I might face the dark thing that holds the last vestiges of fear over me – 30 years now counting.

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