CHORUS

It’s better when the story is just yours.  That’s how we make every story ours.  So that the sweep and grandeur isn’t lost.  Lost in short attention spans.  Lost in our fast food needs.  Lost to the next sensation.  The next thrill to keep us in suspense.  Our children becoming addicted to Ritalin from watching SpongeBob.  Our clever codes entertaining us with a certain pride of omniscience, but really we’ve grown restless—our character becoming flat—two dimensional.  So that yes we fit easily under doors yet our message never benefiting time—for you never see the reach.  You never see what’s reaching out to you…  And then you must have faith.  That you cannot lose.  You don’t know how the universe is controlled.  What’s absent and what’s not.  You don’t know how many people know you.  And you really can’t say their fate.  All you can do is try to remember the song.  Your part in it—what’s working in you and what’s working outside.  Remember your nature fits and thus you create your own harmony…   Yes  it’s better when the story is just yours for then you know why all our expressions fail, what makes every story ours—where we were when it happened.  That’s how you know your part.  The audience what it always was—the consciousness of your creation…

INT.  AARON’S ROOM—NIGHT 1965

You see a crisp shadow.  On the floor from the bed.  Aaron is sitting with a journal in his hands his elbows resting on his knees.  A flashback to how it was given—Dulcinea handing it to him under the shade of a tree—the laurel tree with a heart and their names etched in it.  Her saying:  Take it.  It was my father’s.  Her eyes what you want to look into with no thought of your own…

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