Language is autonomous. It thinks for itself. It grips the reader tight. It is perverse in its magnificence. After glorious struggles with the burden of utterance, one sees the sunrise from a haunted beach where five phantoms and a child join hands. I like the way Teloc=Tlaloc, though separated by cultures and centuries, and how the "I am the daughter of Wisdom" speech by the spirit Madimi contains remarkable congruences with "Thunder, The Perfect Mind," in the Nag Hammadi Library.
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