Everything that happens in man’s intangible reality casts a shadow  --
but of a special sort:
a shadow that becomes its own thing  --
quite apart from whatever matter seemingly cast it,
and once the shadow is taken by at least one person as being its own entity,
everyone instantly forgets its origin and it is treated as being just as real as
any other feature in that incorporeal realm,
which plays such a large part in the lives of ordinary men.

These shadow-spawned affairs, men find mentally most entertaining,
they are in fact all that the ordinary have to pass their neural free time,
but apparently to increase their pleasure,
once the shadow has been accepted as its own separate something,
the natural born consciousness of men’s brains begins to treat what was initially:
simply a treat as a matter serious;
the vaporous becomes substantial;
the avocational  --  semi occupational;
men’s minds start speaking of the shadow based affair in tones which
always carry overtones of lurking solemnity.

Tales told ‘round a campfire become cultural history,
and games played with a ball become matters of national pride.
This is the essence of all human existence beyond that of mere physical survival;
this is the entire source of all culture, all spirituality,
all that men call the social sciences & arts:
shadows cast by other events which human minds have turned into
events of their own:
a situation both natural, and imperative-for and inseparable-from the civilized life
man now enjoys and which no normal person would have destroyed.
What a few non normally wired people would have done however
is their consciousness freed from the mechanical force that causes their thoughts to accept these shadow sourced affairs as being something other than they actually are;
they want the power, while a campfire myth is being told, to get up and go take a piss.
This obviously is said in a coded message  --
but how else to speak realistically about matters that are but shadows?!

A realized man wouldn’t let himself be polled --  even BY himself.

On one world a man is allowed to sing only songs he has composed,
and in a style strictly his own.
   “What does that prove?”
With most, nothing...........like everything else.

On life’s ozy road: making fun of other people is the Hollow Man’s hobby.
When you know what is going on you realize that what goes on in other people is all that can go on.

A man pondered: “If poetry is the highest art, why can’t poets make a living at it?    Humm.......is it for the same reason that a genius like me is not recognized?
Huh! --  guess it makes sense after all.”

Everybody gives their hero a pass  --
which is another reason the certain man is never his own.

Says one guy:
“Just wait ‘til people who are upset by current events get a load of history!”
As heroditus would sing:
“Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen!  --    ‘cause my mind made it all up!”
A myth a day keeps science away.
    (“I assume that by: science, you mean hardwired reality?!”
An assumption requires gumption.
    “I assume your use of the word: gumption here is a joke, right?!”)

In city park a speaker so declared:
“All governments are puppet regimes  --   propped up by god-knows-what-forces!”  --   but the rebel knows what forces.
The neat thing about living in this solar system is that you can believe that you
 believe the forces are whatever your thoughts say they are.
     Fighting shadows is foolish;
     bitching about them, worse.

One man is available for weddings, birthdays and graduations, but not bar mitzvahs –  he says he’s already cutting things too thin as it is.

Within his own land: one man put his name on a: No-Call List.
Then there is this other guy who won’t sign up for nuthin’!
(Actually it’s the same guy.)
   “So why even bother to refer to him in separate instances?”
So: Why? --  indeed.
Before you can eat a worm  --  it must be cut up.
(“And again I assume: worm means something else?”)
Along about here, some men’s heads gets stuffy  --  like having a: “Code in the nose.”
The name of the only messenger service that can get out of the city,
and into rebel territory is P O R  --  Press On Regardless.

“All right Pa pa: from your view, what is today’s rib cracker?”
     “Under ordinary conditions hearing men speak of: ‘my thoughts.’”
“The key word being: ‘my?’”
     “Precis-a-mundo.”

One man who sometimes spoke publicly about rebel type matters
was approached after such an appearance by a chap who said that
he found the comments most interesting  --  hesitated a moment  --  then asked:
“But can you handle an insult?” --  and the speaker nodded for him to continue.
“For some time I have followed your activities, and analyzed carefully
everything you have said and written over the years and have come to the
unavoidable conclusion that you have made it all up,”  and the speaker replied:
“You call that an insult!”