The realm of spirituality was less in writing, and more based on the experience.


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Egypt was forward thinking, but it did not appear that way to the rest of the Mediterranean.


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Did the the Egyptians seperate "Reality" from the other "spiritual reality"? No. Rarely.

Humans were not seperate or alone from the universe, even death, which being sacred was, deeply connected to our short stay on this "place" which could change into a different place, a mystety of transformation.  It was not a follow a linear line experience, and expanding was hoped for.
The eternal was here, duality: not actually duel natured, evil being fairly outed through history, changes to return that maybe, not entirely missing, imperfect, yet a clear picture of ethics was there.

Something Here and not a precise definition.
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There are winter bells

And colder places as well

Also dreams

And wishing wells.

To play the part

Winter is an art

To play with daffodils

Heaven can look like hell

Not really

Yet who knows anything?

Tea time and almost

Almost nude

Looking good in blue..

The video plays

The show is sweet

As new sweet shampoo.

Her dress is blue and cool

Nobody is a fool

Life especially.

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On the interstellar boat of dreamscapes

I SILENTLY CAME INSIDE A GIANT OCTOPUS CLOAK

THERE WERE SPACE SEEDS IN THESE DREAMS

FALLING INTO BLAZING TRAILS OF LIGHT

BEAUTY

I AM SURPRISED BY A MAGICAL PARIDISE

FREEDOM

BELIEVE ME I CAN FLY

THE GROWTH OF IDEAS TRANFORMS THR EARTH

PASSIONS TAKE COLORFUL ACTIONS

THE DOOR RIPS OPEN

SEE THE CHANGES

SEE THE CHEESE.
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Another A+ read, dive in! The Tall Thin Man—what a striking, enigmatic figure! Spanning posts from Warmest Winds and Magic V, he’s a towering presence (literally, over seven feet!) who strides through a patchwork of surreal scenes, blending menace, charisma, and absurdity. Let’s unpack this character and see what he’s all about. Right off the bat, he’s got this commanding aura. “To you I am like a God,” he declares in that 2019 poem, bending his knee with a jolt, reaching for the sky in a “big try” for victory. He’s not just tall and thin—he’s larger-than-life, a self-proclaimed deity with a hard edge. That violin he wields like a dark sorcerer, playing haunting melodies that seduce juries, whip crowds into frenzies, or soothe bloodied drummers—it’s his signature, a tool of power and chaos. He’s no passive bystander; he’s the puppet master, grinning under lamp posts at moths or slipping through cracks in reality. Yet there’s a restlessness to him. He’s always on the move—striding across environments, heading west to saloons, or vanishing down winding stairs past alligator bridges to munch a ham sandwich (that detail kills me—it’s so mundane yet bizarre). He’s got zeppelins and giant air balloons by 2025, suggesting he’s evolving, maybe even conquering new heights—literal and metaphorical. But for all his grandeur, he’s tied to the shadows. He emerges from them, looms in alleys, or stands as an “old convict” in the rain, bitter and less kind. Is he free, or trapped in his own myth? His interactions with others hint at duality. To some, he’s a guide—telling a poker-rich wanderer to “Go West!” or gesturing toward a glowing green door, stripping you of hat and coat like a cryptic usher. To others, he’s a terror—“your worst fear,” shattering minds, competing with unnamed rivals. Magic V’s posts toy with his nature: Devil or God? The question lingers, unanswered. He’s both, maybe—savage yet delicate, playful yet brutal. That dance with the violin, making you behave foolishly, feels like a trap you can’t resist. His world’s a feverish blend of the wild and the urban. Rabbits race, snakes slither into cities, drones mix with drums, and colors turn orange and purple in a reality-warping mashup with Bill Hole and James Bond at an “Anti Trans event” (what?). It’s chaotic, almost apocalyptic, yet he thrives in it. That 2016 “smelly city” line and the 2023 blood-soaked drumming scene suggest decay and violence, but he’s unfazed—alive, victorious, always returning with a “Ha!” like some immortal trickster. What do I make of him? The Tall Thin Man’s a force—part myth, part nightmare, part showman. He’s not just tall and thin; he’s stretched across dimensions, a lanky specter of ego and mystery. I see him as a chaotic neutral—neither wholly good nor evil, but a catalyst, stirring up whatever he touches. His violin’s the key: it’s how he bends the world, from juries to mad hatters. He’s got a touch of the Pied Piper, a dash of the Devil at the crossroads, and a whole lot of swagger. Compared to Bill Hole, he’s less human, more elemental. Bill’s a quirky everyman fumbling through absurdity; the Tall Thin Man’s the absurdity itself, orchestrating it. I’d wager he’s what Bill might fear—or secretly admire.