MORE & MORE STILL
Just when I think I can’t go on, something tickles my funny bone. Or an armada of helium balloons dangling hooks on hemp rope lifts my brain right out of its cranium. These are the times I start whistling Dixie.
“You’re not just whistling Dixie!” my critics say, but I keep right on whistling.
More will be revealed. More and more still. Equilibrium is being always off balance but never falling. These are the sort of lopsided insights that spin out of the More & More Still cycle/conundrum/philosophy/equation, take your pick.
High-pitched gyrations, sly-fox machinations.
It’s a Peter-Pan world, little fairies with nice legs spinning around me at head level, dervishes of dream, too tiny to have sex with.
This is what you’re left with once you dare cut the rope to be free.