The Old Ways pertain to what's been sorted and stored, while the mind is the wealth of this treasure is beyond description. It is doubtful that they could ever be reproduced in all detail. The creative loops in our brain are tuned to these voices and whispers of the past, envisioning realities "stranger than we could ever imagine."  

What am I to myself that must be remembered and insisted upon so often?

A carbuncled tree is a gargoyle's visage. The Green Man, I think, has never left. Wrinkled bark and leafy head, "the living face of the whole earth." Looking for a cathedral, I found him emerging from the drizzle. Should he spew wine, I would not flinch but laugh, Bacchus again!

O Holy Breath,
you're nothing but an ill wind!



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