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Category Archives: Riddling middles: Musings on beautiful perversities

We are all flying

Nothing repulses the poet-weaver like ‘facts’ or the cultural compulsion she feels to place her feet firmly on the ‘ground’ – for the poet is an offspring of chaos, consciousness dissatisfied, Maya playing in an orchard of mirrors. Reality is too small for her…too stifling. She knows there is no ground. There are no facts. …Continue Reading >>>

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Falling might very well be flying – without the tyranny of coordinates.