Myth is the narrative metaphor sounds out of melodies
ideas finely, illustriously tune in consciousness. Icons
carved from a ceaseless noise of thinking. The golden hissing notes inside them.

Why does it perceive these sensations? For it has daggered the crown of the sun.
Why does it stick to the light? For the soul is an extrusion of resins.
Why does it stink of this rottenness? For the language of God has no grammar; it consists only of
        names.
Why does it father what is merciful? For its athanatopsis is an autarchy.
Why does it mimic knaving wrens? For it changes darkness into light in matinal song.
Why does its pressure flash awareness? For its textures are those of ice or cloth.
Why does it make this dazzling sign? For the books it wants aren’t yet written.
Why does it work itself in friendship? For the Eleontic Primordium is the arena of life.
Why is it always current and ancient both? For I live in it.
Why is it mistaking despair for depression? For the seasons, one after another, prolongate like a music
        the feeling.
Why is it so conformed to this world? For to be transformed by the renewal of your mind
is to be changed in your shape.
Exteriority. Interiority. Ascent.

Why is it a dream-power every night showing thee thine own? For a man is the conductor of the whole
        river of electricity.

In the directer consciousness fewer,
in the remoter more,
this notion of images rising and flocking and fusing
                        is mythological.
As we have all along been considering it.