and so lead us to those first words

IN THE BRUSH ALONG THE SHORELINE THE WATER WAS CLEAR. I could see many colors. Of course I was stoned and I was following him. I followed his outline my steps not necessarily his steps because I was not conscious I was walking. I looked down to my feet as one foot took a step ahead of the other and I was aware of movement I was aware I was moving with the water but its current was slower than mine.

And as sometimes happens when you’re walking in the woods and you hear water the sun through the trees fragmented in your eyes I was there and many places and this place where I was with him where I was with Will was in many places at once as well carried by the souls who had been there and for a moment when you’re willing to think about it and not put it off its sense of urgency a low priority you realize you are connected to the dead and in their help and hindrance the fragile meaning of our lives plays out and it is like making love and then falling into a fitful sleep only to awake with your lover sleeping next to you yet you still wonder if it was a dream. What you believe and don’t believe becomes a pursuance ended and even if you believe in yourself you can’t say with any sheer degree of confidence vanity is your favorite sin. I read somewhere once for a test in school that memories in our brains are activated by enzymes. Like a lock and key once introduced they can be altered to create or destroy and I remember thinking (this also under the influence of enzymes) who I am my identity is a matter of proteins. Neurotransmitters firing. Then I thought am I thinking small or big and can one can you really think on yourself without changing the outcome without changing the limits and then as it happens particularly when you’re stoned and out in the woods just walking I forgot what I was thinking about and it was only later as I set down to write this to tell this story to my mind tell it to my father that I remembered I was thinking about myself and is it strange really that he died that day. Is it strange that the dead have no stories other than what the living tell?

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