A : In these our modern times, I feel there is no silence, no space left. The dark matter prevails. The solar matter is diminished. In this ruckus, I am diminished, too. The pale reflection of who I once was shines in the high night.

C : So, as a Persian God, as a youth or a philosopher, you do not shine. You’re the ghost of the Sun. But do you still have magic? Can you see with second sight? Is the future any brighter? Can you change the world with the power of the Mind?

A : Not so. The future is nebulous. There are confused signs. Even as I pore over the sea-pebbles (and play the wizardry game) I find the ocean overcast with a plethora of false stories. This story is too narrow a margin to examine. We ought to examine them lies one by one.

by many turns we have been made to wander and found a friend or two

far back in time

and never too far ahead in the never-ending nebula

a poisonous snake-river

a half-bred fire-sword

C : Tell me, ferocious God-Beast. Do you still Have It?

Tell me, uber-godly monster, tell your servant and your friend, your enemy and your rhetorical opponent:

What is the nature of Evil?

A : In my youth, I thought I had come to understand it. There seemed to be a time in my adventures in foreign worlds when Evil was so simple, I could comprehend it. I saw it in its many phases and forms.

I debated with myself for a thousand nights (or so).

What should I do about it? Naught. Then I did.

I have fought the angry bull that rages, full of foaming jazz.

My lion bite has left a mark on the Evil creatures.

I did make a difference.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

C : I am not sure I can relate.

What does Evil look like?

Is it shared?

A : It is an image that neither floats or flies. It stays within the boundaries of the mind-fuck. All it does is reflect light, much like that stone full of magic, the satellite Luna.

C : It reflects light, like a mirror? Will you not be concrete? Example. What’s it sound like?

A : Evil sounds like the shape of the blue-winged Jay. Auspicious and winging it.

C : Metaphorical nonsense. Yes, I am a cat, and yes, I am Greek. But do not take me for a foolish follower of Athena. I am better than the Wise old Owl.

A : If Evil changes across time, it shape-shifts to ride with the Valkyre.

C : Now, then. Who should we recall from the dead? What’s in the Archive of Myth that can aid our cause? Who would come forth for Justice and Truth?

A : Once there was a Franklin, rosy-cheeked and full of Epicurus. He had a bit too much to eat. Not him.

C : Well, there was a colleague, an inverted God hanging from an Ash-Tree. He had two ravens like a later story-teller.  Their lies were only true on Wednesday.

A : Well there was a deep hole in the trenches, and there lived a Hobbit.

C : There was a volcanic eruption, a man out of the cave and into the forest with a rice bowl. Into the arms of a kind girl that smiled broadly, even-toothed.

A: There was the madness of Dionysus, and before him, the star of Ariadne in Heaven.

C : “Bewise of Fanciulla‘s heart ! The heart of Fanciulla !”

A : “Even the recollection of willow fronds is a spellbinder that lets to hear.”

C : How exhausting, the bubbles of time and space with all these broken stories. These might be our friends, and yet we do not give them full service. We are not even close to the start of a story that tells the dialogue of Evil.

A : Evil speaks clearly, much more than you and me. This jumble of fragments we are not shoring up against any flood. We’re just remembering in circles, hoping for the Muses to kick our head in.