Art apart

In klare taal spreek ik, daar waar ik voort ga. In heimelen gneek ik, waar ik de poort voor sta. Ik spreek:

Halleluja! Who goeth there?
And the man, who just passed with his green rain cap against the mushy trees sapping in the wind in his face, he passed and did not reply.

So it went, four winters long.

Then a bridge was being built nearby and some traffic came along, and a man from Frankia set up a deep fried snack food bar and from then I had something to eat now and then. I came into existence.

There is a breach in the mind that artists ride.

How come it is only artists who ride it?

Think again - con artists are artists too. They are perhaps the most conscious of the crack. Art is the same vein as high collarbone crime.

Truth passes for fiction, thus any fiction passes for truth as long as it contradicts truth; so the narrative unfolds. We learn of deeper and deeper truths and we integrate them as we remember a dream. Vaguely we are aware of a will in the distant corner of the tv. But we think only in factoids so it remains elusive, like a star on a cloudy night.

Lord of the mighty one, flank me as I enter the temple across the hanging bridge and make the bridge as I go though he air. My mind exists and sometimes I exist. I walk along my work and notice the smell of the air, salty. I remember now, I am a bird. But I continue the lie as I hook the bridge onto the castle's iron rings and knock on the door.

Dee-wanna-wanga

Here the post suddenly ends.

Fixed Cross wrote:

In klare taal spreek ik, daar waar ik voort ga. In heimelen gneek ik, waar ik de poort voor sta. Ik spreek:

Halleluja! Who goeth there?
And the man, who just passed with his green rain cap against the mushy trees sapping in the wind in his face, he passed and did not reply.

So it went, four winters long.

Then a bridge was being built nearby and some traffic came along, and a man from Frankia set up a deep fried snack food bar and from then I had something to eat now and then. I came into existence.

There is a breach in the mind that artists ride.

How come it is only artists who ride it?

Think again - con artists are artists too. They are perhaps the most conscious of the crack. Art is the same vein as high collarbone crime.

Truth passes for fiction, thus any fiction passes for truth as long as it contradicts truth; so the narrative unfolds. We learn of deeper and deeper truths and we integrate them as we remember a dream. Vaguely we are aware of a will in the distant corner of the tv. But we think only in factoids so it remains elusive, like a star on a cloudy night.

Lord of the mighty one, flank me as I enter the temple across the hanging bridge and make the bridge as I go though he air. My mind exists and sometimes I exist. I walk along my work and notice the smell of the air, salty. I remember now, I am a bird. But I continue the lie as I hook the bridge onto the castle's iron rings and knock on the door.

Dee-wanna-wanga

Here the post suddenly ends.

FC,

Is this to be continued - like your "Igor" thread?
Or what?