3-1-93 I suppose I should write something.

I suppose I should write about this big world.  I should write of searing desire finally atrophying to dull taste.  I should expound on how hearts have expanded, all deceit dropped away from the eyes of the darkest among the whole.  I should relate how drenched fires and parched earth have all rent asunder the seasons from a crystal cycle that now has no place in the hall of the Now.

Some might wish me to write of meadow roads, or far-flung hearts, alight in the springtime, or fallen in the autumn.  Others would hear a bloodletting tale, or one of high concept, with predictions for future events combined with the technology of the gods.  Or maybe it's not the common piece they want, no, perhaps it is some insight as to how to look at the world, take it in and not be taken, to remember but not really, to categorize with but one category, one option, one, lump, sum.

Or how's this?  One tale..simple in its form, based on filtered facts and constructed scenes.  The actors are almost all one person, the rest are mere stick players, some might see them as hand puppets.  The drama is not a drama, nor comedy, nor tragedy.  It's merely a show, four dimensional in presentation (at least 4) and from beginning to end...nothing but shadows.