Once upon a time is a necessary mirage. Flesh born of word and bones fulfilling myth. Stories are the means to endlessness. They go on and on. We go on and on carried along by stories carrying within them the seeds of the lasting born. In the telling we are told. We are voiced along invisible currents which babble white tongued spirals and cadent intimacies. We being the keepers of the flood. Stories bubble up from under the great weeping the sleepover dreaming spells of multi versal lives refraining. We clone ourselves as test proofs. We give shape to our voices with alchemy blessing our gist. For days on end we weep with unabashed gratitude for all that ever was or is. We can’t help but weep after having touched the pulpy magnetic core of something so redeemably soft so defenseless. Stories are the means to endlessness. We are the tellers and the told. Once upon a time is a raging mirage by all means necessary.