There are a thousand stories for every myth, and a million for each mythology. There will never be enough sounds to fill out all the meanings in a single name of history’s quiet daughters.
The muse bows and steps away from the spotlight.
Perhaps someone will paint her face like that, as it looks just on the other side of a spotlight.
Perhaps someone will write new songs for her.
I’m in Decatur, Georgia, listening to the birds, the wind sweeping out the trees and cars passing outside my apartment window. I’m thinking about what is older than all of us, and of the long sunset moment in time between the union of the song and the word and the dissolution of everything when they inevitably fall away from each other forever and ever into a cool, dark flame.
I’m making no sense.
I’m making nothing.