A ZOROASTRIAN (BECAUSE HE WAS, and because sometimes it really does matter) once jumped the battery of my otherwise unbroken vehicle on an otherwise sad day and, because this is my life, we got into a discussion of God(1) and it wasn’t long before we were agreeing on the need to sleep peacefully at night and that one cannot do that without being right with God (read, said he: right with one’s fellows), and hoping for the best of whatever’s the next world, or even next unseen moment, without such store of good- and God-will is a vain enterprise indeed; which thought seems to be one also preached by at least all the paths I traveled in the circuitous route to root and seed which is the path of all life and words and, and to ignore this discomplicating fact my new Zoroastrian friend told me (and still tells in brain-snapshot’ metaphor, read: man jumps battery; jumpstarts the journeyer; recharges the charge; do I have to make it plainer?) would keep it unshared with wherever and whoever your Sunday finds you: snugly newspaper-nested, walking the line, paddling madly onshore. And isn’t that what he was really saying?
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(1) That Indescribable Essence which is never the same from you to me or anywhere in between, and which I persist in describing here and there.