I drink blood aged in the alluvium of ancient battlefields, with bread baked by Romans. The taste is complex, irony. I contemplate dominion, unity, and liberty.
To the Greeks! Socrates was a character. It was The Republic that killed him. Aristotle is the true poet. But no, I raise this chalice to Delphi.
I commune with the rejected, cast out, unworthy of heaven, doomed to sing a part in the high holy harmony of its praises.
I practice letting go, the offensiveness of hypocrisy.
I take water because all water is holy; all fire, all air, all Earth. These are the creator of life. Therefore all life is holy. Therefore war, the destroyer of life, shall not be.
The elements converge where my dog dreams me, bringing Buddha's smile to her face, anywhere fortune favors a fool. C'est la vie.