There was once a poem so long that it stretched from the heart of the interior all the way to the coast. It was an important work, an epic that spun histories of an ancient and mystical people.

A poem that calls upon us to find patience for those things that we would rush.

Because you exist, I cannot see the world. You jump from canyons, and you grow in the orchards, only to rise from the shadows of billboards and churchyards.

I have met a lovely and shapely girl in the countryside who was accompanying her parents on a "constitutional holiday" rather than a vacation (at least, that's how they termed it).

They will come, the sorrows with their brutalities and humiliations, their executioner's masks; their shrill and baying mobs. They will nestle in the continuum of time, immovable, become part of the world that spins and all of the scars on all of the skins will flare with the knots of their history, with an honest and gnashing recursion.