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... The Difference is You

A writer inspired by the vicissitudes of a life lived on the edge of a bluff overlooking lightning bolts and bursts of thunder with a stylus

a-difference-a-day-makes

What a Difference a Day Makes

when you can die on credit and be refashioned with copper tone-clay... superseding previous ages of iron, bronze, silver and refashioning black pearl for maidens into ruby gold...

The Pearl White maiden and the Fibula-Doré prince become the stuff of myth and legend from the childhood of the genome where a day was like a thousand years ( so that Adam lived for nearly a day ) and Eve didn't fully die — she just passed on her genes...

The Satanic light of the self-divided God-like simulation made up of errant haemoglobins called goblins incarnated at the end of the first Day in the eyes of the snake ( hence snake-eyes ) and something survived the death of each passing day, even though a thousand years were contained in it — where "thousand" from "mille" and "million" means simply self-same, so that an infinite regression both occurs and doesn't occur by virtue of an incision which both can and cannot happen to things which both are and are not, because something like an aether forms the background "soup" in which everything swims, except for God's spirit which hovers above it...

So that a Biblical Story is equally adult history and a children's story and forms the backdrop of any future scientific pata-physics that would claim to attack this "soup" with a three pronged soap bar named mathematical proof, empirical hypothesis, and juridical evidence without first looking at the jaundiced walls of the bathroom where these offensive showers take place...

But as a Child is Born, a day can be born with it ( both from the inside and the outside ) where starlight overlooks the light shinning in the newborn's eyes, and would it be true that light contains mind or that mind contains light, then both star and child can concur on issues related to birth and death and everything in between including the raising of putatively dead children form their beds by virtue of an order that is not really an order but an invitation nevertheless for the man in the child to raise himself and the child in the man to sustain the father from grave to grave until — and this is a big until — something yet to be known inaugurates an even bigger mutation that looks down on us little children on our little tertiary rock from the sun and smiles that soteriological smile with a touch of iron-y in its "gates," if indeed it would have "gates" at all of the sort we know... And...

© 2021 James Bardis

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