A WormHaus on Walpurgisnacht

The Dampness That Remains

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The muses came early this morning, in a dream, and carried me to the place where the mist of tears separates life from all of the music and verse of eternity.  In this place I can hear all of the songs, all of the music, all of the poetry and literature that ever was or ever will be.  I can see the source of each inspiration clearly and perfectly while I am there.  I can hear the melodies and lyrics; all of the myriad possible combinations of subtle nuance, meaning, intonation are there for me to experience.  Each a perfect, unflawed jewel of perfection.

I fill my mind, my soul, my spirit with each in turn.  How glorious!  How sad that I am such a leaky bucket for on my return to this world only a moist dampness remains.  A few tears from the mists cling to my eyes as I struggle to remember anything at all other than the pure emotions that remain.

I suspect there must be many worlds such as this and the only rule of significance is that you bring nothing with you save what you carry inside and that you leave with only what remains.