Article voiceover
Heavenly Father, Once upon a time there was a man named God. Once upon a time there was a man. Once upon a time there was a boy named Quentin. Once upon a time there was nobody who laid in bed. No. Lied in bed. No. Nobody laid noself down in bed where no lies, caressing noself’s nipple, comforting noself, lying with noself, lying to noself about noself’s beliefs of noself that noself is somebody, or maybe that noself is nobody. No’s not quite sure about noself, where no’s not to be. Once upon a time is an easy beginning, some mantric melody, sweet as birdsong, windchime, riverrock, the rustling of leaves from wind, from rain, and the sound of asphalt on a hot summer day. Once, once, once, once, once. Just this once upon a time a boy curls— to a boy’s left side —up in bed because his mother said this is the side one lies on when in abdominal distress, and she should know, being a woman an’ all. Boy knew well the hardships of womanhood taught to boy by woman mother that boy found woman to be of lore, supernal, walking sacrifice to the gods that once upon a time boy dreamt of woman not erotically. Perhaps, perchance, reverently, as much deference as boys had earned in respect to give. Boy cashes out boy’s worth, homage to girl. Once upon a time, this time, there be a woman whose image of which the boy cannot materialize but whose aura of which is rising yellow, green, blue. Once upon a time there was, and was easy, the summer equinox at dawn, nothing was wrong for no search was there for right. Habits past shed from the lining of inner births to be. Free. Empty. Free. Liberty. Liberty. Liberty. Tone atone me not save not injury to me but me. Once, once, once. Once. Once upon a time, man be. Be free.