sometimes you can't help it, can you. sometimes it can't be helped, can it. So that sometimes when I can't help it I can justify myself.
I've always thought of that entry as a little girl lolling against the curvy gentle bit of the 0 ala dreamwhatever, the movie thing you know. Where the eprehemal ghost of a boy swings his legs below the cresent moon and his fishing string links him back to the world- his only connection with our earth, otherwise he wouldn't even be a shadowy boy, for, if we cannot reconcile him to our reality, we cannot classify him as a boy. we know what boys are. so his vulnerable heart lengthens and lowers itself down through the second heavens so that it thins further and further till what it becomes, is his fishing rod that connects us with reality- and now that that is settled, the movie, whatever it is, can start.
that world is not grey, it's lighter and darker shades of light, and white. there isn't any black, only a midnight blue. the kind of skie that mere writers call "twilight", without knowing what it is they evoke. midnight is never midnight, there is no black. it's a blue beyond the senses, indescribable, but. you can see it in clubs. [What paradoxy. That the stuff of fantasy draps down from a dancing ceiling, where intoxicated minds and slippery bodys grind each other and tongues urgently explore another's wet hot mouth.] In that world a choice few reside. Entrance is more often than not decided in the cradle, or bestowed to the bairn dandled from its mother's knee. These chosen ones have had a faye's space in their brains. Hark them toddlers. [One could at this point turn cliche and melodramatically declare, destiny. Carried away by our own rambles and the ego creeps in doesn't it. No. Self-conciousness must be denied entry, always.] They will be found, it will manifest itself. And you. If it doesn't come naturally, do not try. It just falls flat on your face.