Gods hand on some of their responsibilities
to their children. The androgynous Goddess
speaks, with mock-sourness, closed lips
of distaste. “The passing of immortals appeals
to the best of us. Do not speak to me of Love.
Master your sense of exploration, renew your
interest in biological entities, John C. You may
have a shorter life, this time. Wake up from”
“Your recurring delusions. Your imagination-deity
spins stories ever-more, or desires, spiders’ nests.
You’re a miniature figure in her story, the grand
old story of the childless, godless dream. Wakey.
Wakey. The mutated NeverEnder burns in the
background, the memories are incense for more
navel-grazing, and you cherish the prison of your
thoughts, much like your diseased mother.”
“She dies every day in a labyrinth of sleuth-pity.
You can imagine the world as a cascade of Gods.
Your mother, d’haughter of Gaia, became wed to
Oceanus, and hence a thousand nymphs were born
in your spirits. The shape-shifting family man,
Prontus populated the alcoves of the world
with deep and dangerous Nereids, friends of
dolphins, and of humans. Your offspring will”
“be wind to the seasons, if ever should you
write your grotto-dryads and grove-nymphs
down. Your acts of creativity are displays
of theathrical sexuality, you may find your
semen spread all over a white page, or else.
You’re playing with your borrowed time,
observing these rolling planets and dancing
stars, and the very love of your existence”
“your chance of redemption is lost in this
game of theology, and the people whose
spirits you may have touched, have gone
After a while, John C began his practice
of walkabouts and thoughtabouts. He met
a fellow sportsman, exercising this side of
Mount Doom. “I am a Spartan”, he said
briefly. John C challenged him in various
feats of physical prowess, the art of zero
rotation, the sphynx-poetry exercise, and
of course, a game of sexual javelins ensued.
Being equal in every feat, they began
discussing philosophy, like friends in
adolescence may do. Life stories, as
well. “I am full of potential”, began
the Spartan. “I’ve picked slices of the
silver moon, ate the cavity of my mind.
My flash-suit is trained to fly ever closer
to the Sun’s golden flares.” John C replied
with a boast of his own. “I cast two shadows,
and know how to haemorrage feelings. The
worlds of Goddess unknown haunt me,
and yet I am fully awake while the delusion
rolls on. My soul is hardened, but my
prayers are endless. I am a fool of high-
flying methane, a storm in the flowering.
I am yet to love the end of a story, and
so I practice oblivion with firm hands.”
The Spartan was digusted. “And I thought
you were a noble creature, you are the
very same individual who has given up”