[syndicate] Terpsichore‏

[jeff harrison]

My dream lamed, my dream to have my words on the rose to music altered and danced. Posterity, the bottomless pit with laurel leaves to break your fall, is indeed nothing beside such ephemerae. The curse is from Terpsichore, who hasn't returned after my brief, and now forgotten, speech on the sovereignty of scent in awakening memory. Terpsichore, I believe, took offense, as She, although ghostly, brings with Her the bouquet of the earthiest of hyenas.
 
With a bark of laughter, I realize this theory of scent and memory may have occurred to me before my speech to Terpsichore.



      
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