Drizzly afternoon. Wiping moisture from the car's inside windows, an inconspicuous sign id seen through the gloom. In Forest Park, the tiny monks living in the Wailing Wall's caves inhale what's left of the sky. Fronds shake their shaggy green heads in waves, that's their reality. Psychic reality. Fantasy powers. Powers of fantasy. They can be celebrated, honored, reinforced by rituals but they do not exist by virtue of rituals any more than their existence is tied to the mythical narratives about them. As psychic realities they are present anywhere to the heart, showering the creek below. The world must be un-

             but who
  will admit it?


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