Journey to India

Let me tell you, my head is full of stories, and as if it wasn't already full, when I go about my business, more stories pop into my head all the time, circling around me like interesting flies, each a sort of messenger fly, with a little story compressed into its v-shaped frame, hoping to unzip it into my head for the taking. And my head, so full of Concerns, Thoughts, takes no notice of the gifts and nods and moves on to the next Concern or Daydream of Greatness and Grandeur, and the little beings fly off unworried to the next willing taker.

Many of them are composted as things go, and nothing is ever really lost. The stories dissolve into words, and the words into letters, the letters into pixels and join a large heap of dots that merge together into a nondescript mass that stews and ripens and ferments for eons or some other length of time inscrutable to mortals after which little viral bridges are built like tendrils into story-less space, where they touch each other and start to network and become thicker and chunkier until they break up and float off into letters and words and stories yet again. No two are ever precisely the same because they are not just permutations of alphabets or dots, but a different substance that changes through time in a linear way never to repeat history.