Writing is always an act of recovery. Truths cannot be told.
What was I about to say? Tinnitus of the edge closing in: call it a demented pleasure-seeker’s journal, the slip into or off something more or less comfortable. Sell a million. Measure the benefit. That way more utility?
Identity and tradition, culture and place, trans oceanic, cis-alpine, ship-borne, chair-borne, anything but Airborne, jumping in the mountains from a DC3, Agent Orange poisoning the forests, slash and burn then DDT?
Gall and gash electric zithers, mass cicadas, zipline data, alpine flora, precious places plotted on a platen of virtual stuff,
the squashed fish theory of oil ontology; unguents soothing the nose. Phenolic aromatics, distillates or stardust running in the veins of trees? Carmina Burana, marching to the death camps, how many? Nobody knows.
Writing is always an act of recovery. Truths cannot be told.
rWorld2 