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Interfacia Aspectia
I've never been able to categorize Story. I am very fond of the classic poetic and
storytelling forms and the rules of constructing them, but I find that I fall in love more
often with pieces that blur the lines, Story's raw formless and unstructured aspects.
Poetry
Fiction
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 Story rolls over the hills, oblivious and constant. The wide, yellow bands of smoke and the small brown tendrils within them etch out faint Sanskrit, Olgham, and Kanji upon supple landscapes. Its horizon roils, internal storms flickering through soft, muted coverlets, small explosions rising with arched
necks and subsiding at the height of their salmoned soubresauts, unattained and
incomplete.
Die and it continues. Wake and it continues. Fail to notice
it and it continues, invisible, ever-present, and contrary to the paper models we construct to represent it. It thrums and buzzes past our grasp, our best attempts to make it manifest are only short breathes through the interface, channeled golems, phantomed aspects of the overarching totality. We plug in. We open. But we are only the vessel. For the true Story cannot be contained. It can only be ridden.
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