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April 19, 2014
The song is sung, no words, no music, no threads tying its fabric to the matrix of the sidewalking whirligig of material devices, nor clamor of people bidden to perpetual unrest, nor disquiets made sharp in the divestment parading arrogant through streets bowing to their ostentation and vigorous superiority found wanting when answers sway to questions' authority. This song is sung in a personal silence, in a solemnity mannered to its calling, not to itself but to the reason for itself, the reason of all, the centerfold manifold assumed as supreme, where all manner of the song enfolds alpha & omega.