How do you know what’s true, and what’s just a slippery film of imagination, running slick across the surface of deep reality? Life’s a prismatic rainbow, swirling, whorls of color – but it only takes a spark, a tiny flame of eternal Truth, to ignite your fancies and hurl them into the endless sky.

She says Yes, she says No. It’s all a show. Yes is a fleeting vapor, a ghost, an ephemeral wisp, a cry that fades into the night. You hold your breath and stop your heart, and if you’re very still you can hear Yes little longer. No is a mountain crag, a great gulf, fixed, between Paradise and Sheol; you see the land that flows with milk and honey, but No won’t dip a finger into her sparkling streams to slake your thirst or quench your fire.

Vanity, vanity. Dark things dwell beneath the surface, or so I’m told. Skip a stone and twist the pattern, imagination ripples – what if, what if? What if all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players? You’re the extras, I’m afraid. I know, because you’re gone, and the show still carries on. I sit and type all night, and where are you? Exit, stage right. Relax, sit down, you’re not on again until tomorrow morning.

Here’s a match, let me get that for you. What’s that you say? I’m the second assistant understudy for the man who stands in back with look of perpetual surprise? That’s an amusing thought, indeed. It’s time to skip another stone.



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