What lovely thoughts! What terrible places we'll see!

Semi-sentient beings,

I like to think that the world isn't the horrid, beautiful place it is sometimes. At times I like to think of it as a big parade balloon, floating down the Avenue, a magnificantly commercial product, full of nothing but hot air, and yet not unpleasing to the eye. Guided by the few - I won't designate them either fortunate or not - bouncing around between the babel-towers of the powerful, with a great big smile painted on. Alas. I just go wild sometimes.

I anticipate that, despite the fact that I've cancelled my Paros, Greece, plans, I will nonetheless be residing in Athens within a year. Possibly as early as February, no later than August, both in the year 2010 of our Lord. Often, in the midst of daytime reverie (which, given my current Walden-in-a-room situation, doesn't happen as often as you might expect), I see myself in fantastic drunken orgies with girls and boys cut from the same cloth, or maybe sitting in a Platonic symposium, lying casually in some divan taken right out of the Orient, talking republics, realities, all while - not without some distracting discourse, mind you - the girls play their aulos between topping off our coblets of wine. Naturally, these orgies are in honor of Dionysus, for I do believe that the god himself placed a piece of his torn flesh in my soul before he was resureccted, Christ-like. The symposiums are not in honor of any athletic or poetic achievements; simply discourse and and making merry for their own sakes. 

Well, there's only two ways to view these scenes: in a year's time, I will be furthering these pipe-dreams in a Psychology lecture; or I might, in retrospect, just be comparable to the famed oracles of Delphi. 

But anything that's been sprung from my woolgathering and shape-shifted into these flimsy words must be possible. Rest assured my palate will be ready should the opportunity present itself.

Pray softly and dream loudly, romantic hearts.

Post script:

It should also be noted that the term 'literary onanism' is quite sufficient for everything said heretofore, and the term strikes such a positive note, with the exception that, after such rigorous reverie, one does not face what the French call la petite mort, which strikes the adult male so often post-climax.