Prose poetry says, "No, I will not tell a tale straight out,
I will let you derive a tale from some oblique angle."
Why is a building built this way and not another? There is a difference between the Golden Gate Bridge and the Guggenheim Museum.
Why? These elemental questions always come into play.
Prose knows itself to be a kind of dross waiting for the alchemical process to spin it
into mysterious gold. Why is it valuable? Who knows. It just is. To question why would be as ridiculous as asking why air is valuable. They say they
know but they don't. Somewhere exists a planet that has no air and beings are playing and singing on it like no ones business. Life is that absurd and rich in possibility.
And if play and possibility end then it is the hangman's noose for humanity.
The ghosts of the powerful will always tell the living to play and dream of possibility. The ones who make it to heaven at any rate. Those
in Hell are all the same, though their agony is experienced quite differently.
Brief Tales on a Whim. There is nothing more pitiful than the storyteller
without his stories.
In the apprenticeship period hopes are high. "But then, who will save us from our own crimes?"