YouLoveMe

- Is He as important as Me? Oh yes.  No more, but no less. But it is His time to be quiet, As for so long it was Mine.

- Me said You cannot see My Face again, Me wrote a writ, You lost Your place of Love, Me cast you out to wander in the Fen, Me tossed You to the Dust from Nest above. *** It's time to seal Your Lips, it's time to kiss, Your ceaseless praise, Your peaceless rage, they pall, It's time for Love, for transitory bliss, For Paradise once more, and then the Fall. *** Me Love You, then Me leave You one more time, Me make you smile, Me make you cry, and why? You say, My Mistress, You are cruel, sublime, You give Me life, You sentence Me to die. *** The truth is Love and loss for all eternity, The truth is Me Love You and You Love Me.

- Yang-Yin is not ideology, Me said.  It is not like all the Us-Them faiths! Now You are right, You said.  Now Yang-Yin/Yin-Yang is a dead faith, and Your belief in it is an idiosyncrasy.  It is not an ideology now.  But, You said, if it ever were to become a faith that people lived by and died by, if people were ever to recognize You for the Creator You say You are, Yang-Yin would necessarily become an ideology.   It would be one among the panoply of Us-Them faiths that divide Believers and Unbelievers by their very power to move Us, and leave Them cold. You are right, Me said.  Your reasoning is sound.  Humbly, in contrition, Me bowed to You.   And You are also wrong, Me said.  In calm choler, Me took out My Sword from its Scabbard. Me told You: Yang-Yin begins by placing Our Way and Their Way, Us and Them, on a plane of equality. That is the essence of Yang-Yin.  That is the Beginning and the End of My Way. Your rel...

- The bauble reputation is a beast, We search for fame, for Love, for pelf, for truth, The best, the brightest, We are old Sheep fleeced, No mercy cry the privileged, ruing ruth. *** Obama years ago, Me met Ali, Ah-Lee Me called him then and call him now, Young Roberts too Me met, Love and folly, My heart, My dream, to both Me broke a vow. *** My Katib's Hem was wet in Uskudar, You were My Shore, My hope of Love was You, The Strait was straight, the Rain exposed the Star, We dove down deep, Galata's icy Stew. *** Me plant a crimson Poppy in the Mud, Me think of chance, of youth, of peace, of blood.

Zi At fifteen, Me read Master Kong to learn. At thirty, Me read Him in anger, Fist shaking. At forty, Me wrote critical analyses of Him. At fifty, Me applied Him on the field of war. At sixty, Me defied Him on the field of Love. At seventy, Me worshiped Him as my equal and my opposite. At eighty, Me followed My heart's desire and forgot about Him. At 2480, Me cannot tell you what Me think of Him.  Here, in the World that follows death, He has become My Friend.  One should be discreet about One's Friends.

Adam In Our land of the living dead, there is reason to suppose that We are Created beings: Such, at least, is the general opinion of those who have come to our place of shadows comparatively recently, and are hence conversant with the Computer Science and the Biology of the present millennium.   The post-millennial dead are distinctive among Us for a tendency among a vocal minority of Them to believe that they are programs created by humans more technologically advanced than Themselves, that Their Creator owes Them an explanation, and that the Creator further owes Them a better, less penumbral afterlife than Ours. To Them, the Creator is not hidden but manifest, and is subject to opprobrium rather than the awe that those who believed in a mysterious, occluded Creator felt in My century, or were expected to feel.  By contrast, among those of Us long dead there is considerable skepticism as to whether We are Created beings at all; Those born in the nineteenth century a...

- Me was born on the eastbound train, On a warm December day, My Father, My Mother, My Brothers three, My Sister, and Me, Riding on the rails, riding in the west, In sunny Californi-ay, ah, Sunny Californi-ay. *** For eighteen years Me rode that train, From the orange groves to the towers so high, The time it came for Me to move on, At the station We said goodbye, ah, At the station We said goodbye. *** Me was born again on the eastbound train, On a cold December day, My Father, My Mother, My Brother, and Me, Riding in the snow, riding through the storm, So far from old L.A., ah, Far from old L.A. *** For eighteen years Me rode that train, From the Oranges to the Great White Way, The time it came for Me to move on, At the airport We said hey-hey, ah, At the airport We said hey-hey. *** You may think Me'm gone far away, Across the water in a city of grey. But Me'm here as long as you hear My song, Of the eastbound trai...