Red heifer is to the politicos as the bread of affliction is to stale saltines

Peace is not the placid surface of a spring, a contentment that this distance between me & characterization of strange lands that allows for an oblivion that will satiate the eternal. The eternal being the last few minutes making up my feeling now, my experience in the world making up a subtle ignorance of a strange future. The spilled milk of consciousness is functional as wall-flowers of the drab people-garden of industrialized-West, because it'll never be an entrance to thought-scapes, but only its exits. Suturing suras (measures) of Believers & Seekers from a mt. top as these novels, I read, tend toward a travelogue, I get at from vacation smells that never go away- Texans afoot on Temple-Mount, by the Dome of the Rock leave little room for solvency of an excuse to build bridges with identification between nations.