Member-only story
The Author
Once Follower, reader of sorts, taking Quill in hand
Sitting on the mountaintop, contemplating existence, observing the storylines, told, and untold. With every breath, a new scene, clearing palette given the same, the Author witnesses an unfolding of realities from past to future sense.
A gust of wind, more like a horizontal cyclone, tornadic proportions sweeping through valley’s gorge, all the while conversing with Smokey Joe, the Author remains observant. Witnessing townships, planets, creative existence birthed and reborn, breathing in familial traumatic treasures collective embrace, breathing out universal love cleansing palate, expatiate painful feeling of sorts.
Wetting quill’s tip salivary kiss, sharpening gaze over life’s basin, preparatory involvement, prior re-writing story retracing creative tale, through the thick and thin, darkened shadow of death, recounting and recanting thus before.
Firstly a great fear enters a trade of thought, consuming our narrative, telling false tales of comets, cupids, and big dippers taught to us by dictatorships and dogmatic control. The Prince spelling out as Machiavelli retorts, creating illusions, gaining control, binding subjects into submission, and servitude to mass consumption, sickness prevails exponentially.
