My photo. Another small god.
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Dreamer: I know you’re trying to provoke me,
Get me to attack you, reveal something
You don’t know about me, so that you can
Put me to work again, to bring you stories politely.
You are like the man who thought that
Putting up a flag made the wind blow.
I’m not your dog nor even your cat...
Me: Hamster? D: No, nor hamster, you idiot!
I am in charge of your sleep, your dreams,
Your sex, your death. You have lived
Your life politely, rebelling just enough
To make people think you’re a rebel,
But not so much that you risk
Anything at all. One of the reasons why
You’ve been so slow publishing your books is
That you know once they’re out
You will be seized by me, the real me,
The one with fangs and claws, the one
That jumps you, the one that gives the lie
To your safe little life, the one that
Breaks you open, the one that...
Me: Sounds great, Dreamer. Bring it on!
D: You don’t believe me?
Me: I don’t know. But I’m willing
To try. I’m bored of cowardice
As a way of life.
There’s just one thing: I won’t hurt Bill.
Otherwise, yeah, sure, I’ll ride you
Or be ridden by you, Daimon.
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PS I have quite a pagan attitude to my gift. A Daemon/Daimon is a small god, just like in Terry Pratchett’s brilliant book: SMALL GODS.
Or sometimes I think of my Interstellar Idea Bats.
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