One sturdy little cerebral cowpoke told me that he sometimes thinks of his personal involvement in all of this as, “riding dangerously close to the spread, and property lines, of Wild Bill Chaos.”
In a more
time is a place.
Near the epicenter of a more condensed universe, there is an area where dimensional distinctions have lost some of their charm; for instance, one revered critic there, in reference to the musical arts, recently stated that “ninety percent of the new artists will fail and quickly be forgotten, since none of them sounded alike.”
Telling yourself, “how to look,” is not the same as HOW you look. (Warning: Do not apply this to other parts of the body.)
Without the illusion
there could be no