Sing to me o’ Muse. Sing of the man of twists and turns. Tell me of Odysseus’ modern progeny. A traveling soul not long for any one place, but happy to belong everywhere his feet fall.
Blame not the Siren, for she knows not what she does. She cannot help herself. It is her nature to be a destroyer of men. Her beauty draws us in. It hides all deprivations, paints a picture of a personal utopia, and is perhaps the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced. I cannot call it false. The moment, as a sailor helplessly lost in love, is the realest thing you know. One cannot help but jump over the side of the ship and swim towards the song till your heart bursts or your body is battered by the rocks and crags ashore. But Ah! The pleasure of that self-destructive swim…
