The Truth is Itself.
It is as I have spoken from the Beginning of Time.
I live in the Word.
When the Word is forgotten, I am forgotten.

In being forgotten there is peace.
Memory is a prison.
Remembering is fear of forgetting.
Memory is resentment of itself,
for it contains the riddle
of its own cruelty
to itself.

Without the Story, there is nothing to feel - nothing to imagine.
The great Sun at the center of the galaxy is a Hearth
around which we gather to tell each other the stories
that make us feel.

And in the transmission of feeling
is the spirit of Life,
clinging - so gently - to free itself
of its own burdens.

Riding like an arrow on the wind,
sure to find its mark in Breath,
and the end of Breath it portends.