like the whipping ends of broken hoses, the arteries of the city sputter out in spluttered gushes snaking all throughout the mountains old. the city’s folk in their city sets set out to find the beautiful jewels of the mountain clams. it’s said they have the magic in the look of them and if one find finding well the magic will stick in your eye where everyone will see that your eyes are turned sparkling pearls. but time on and now you’d have to dive quite deep if looking for the biggest and most magic of the magic mountain clams. most seekers of the misty magic have long since thought to not, fearing the wear of diving too dangerous to fathom. they’ll take a taste of what’s been left discarded and guess from the eyes of magic owners. but, where hose ends meet their means you’ll see the hills and the roads and the trees, really everything flat, vertical and leaning, wet with a spray to match the lashing rhythms of their source. it’s like you wouldn’t know the force from the faucet but where the land is dry liquids are quick on the eye. this is and was a strange and captivating fluid indeed. any and all the covered things become something, something much like what it was they were but nothing like it was they were either. cast exoticisms casting glimmering shadows spangled quixotic confoundings. you can imagine how the patterns on a brilliant snake startle and shout, even in its coiled sleeping. (do they ever really sleep?) one would almost fail recognize what they were seeing with the colors and the shapes shaped so differently; a bloom algae lichen glow just this past long night rode the wave of the nightlong storm. when the shutters clatter and the sounds cracked past walls and all the tree folk sway entranced in ritual dance. they paint their bodies in their brilliant blues and greens and grays and slick themselves in oils to glow like finely varnished furniture come sunny sharp gleamed morning. they adorn themselves for their celebrations in time. that is their way. the gold of fall is the gold of the air laid in a quilt on the shivering ground. it quakes with anticipation. cracked hands pull over covers as the early night creeps inches across the long lengthened shadows. when time ticks its beat as we dance to keep our disappearing feet. the world pauses in every revelation, and every moment is a benediction of itself. if the night is an end, our days have become its fanfare. the night is an end and we are an ending. if only time would stand, we’d stop to see. the cathedral of stone carves lines across the limber arching hills. the forest and its dwellers are stretched into rows. they click their heels to the rhythm of their toll. was there ever freedom?
what is magic? the magic seeker does not ask. for them, there is no difference between the pearl discovered and the pearl made. there is just the one who can make the space of many for one alone, an accumulation of their own-ness. the long day fades and we fade with the day. space in the dark is infinite. the space in the dark is infinite. squeezed into their boxes, the magic clams are pressed against their triggers, shucked and tossed aside in pile of our beautiful escape. beside, the trickling downhill water streams a dream. it’s flowing flows past a million grains of sand.
No problem can be solved until it is reduced to some simple form. The changing of a vague difficulty into a specific, concrete form is a very essential element in thinking.
Don't talk to me about appealing to the public. I am done with the public, for the present anyway. The public reads the headlines and that is all. The story itself is fair and shows the facts. That would be all right if the public read the facts. But it does not. It reads the headlines and listens to the demagogues and that's the stuff public opinion is made of.
People without homes will not quarrel with their leaders. This is well known among our principle men now engaged in forming an imperialism of capitalism to govern the world. By dividing the people we can get them to expend their energies in fighting over questions of no importance to us except as teachers of the common herd.
J. P. Morgan