Let the Dog Drive
Into this little alchemist's oven I put the logical evolution of Ghanima and the rib of catvalente. I need a place where I can sit in the dark and conjure hats out of rabbits. I need a place where realism is banished on pain of death. I need sodden soil in which to plant secret things, and I have marked out this land as mine.
This is mulch. Everything goes in, and out will sometimes spring a poem, or a book. If you choose to read this you are entering into an intimate space, primordial soup. Everything here will be born again, somewhere. These words are cells, and someday they will be a body.
Here I plant Aristotle and an Aristotle-tree sprouts from the earth. It is not a logical or linear plane. It is my own to do with as I see fit, simply a well into which I shall drop my strangely-minted coins.
Add and you shall be added back. I do not read my friends list through this page so it makes no difference to me how many people I list. Eventually, I will make this friends-only. For now, it is open. Comment freely, if you are so inclined. Respect copyright. If you behave like a howler monkey I have no problem selling you back to the zoo.