Friday, November 4, 2011


"Working on the fly, it furiously reconstructs not only what happened but why"

Can we spare a kind thought
For the interpreter,
The confabulator,
The host of the machine
Who weaves a sense of self
From odds and ends of brain?

So much grief we squander,
Calling our selves liars,
Which they are and must be
For us to imagine
We are things that exist,
When we're stories, not things,

Stories about being
Things truer than stories,
And, yes, it's frustrating
To be what we aren't, but
That a fairy tale tells
A good lie is good truth.

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