Any serious attempt to try to do something worthwhile is ritualistic.
We read, we travel, we become.
Time is the metre, memory the only plot.
Memory that yearns to join the centre, a limb remembering the body from which it has been severed, like those bamboo thighs of the god.
The word and the shadow of the word / makes a thing both itself and something else / till we are metaphors and not ourselves . . .
I look in the mirror. There's me. What's in the mirror is not real. So am I unreal?