.Cernunnos.
If they cover you in darkness, learn to live in the night. If you want to find your enemy, find out who won’t let you think. Each day we rise from the dead and in our daily journey forget that we will fall again each of the nights. The very deep interest and meaning in our history of that first and final day, driving us to rush to the end and challenge the lost beginnings, and to this there is only the answer to the question. The story preserves the soul and the teller defends it in words with songs, unrelated to relation and unbecoming to begin with one song for each note, but with a deeply rooted accuracy that experts who are singers couldn’t know every song because of cultures and tastes and abilities and audience. From this we see the elements of the forest of very real trees and very mysterious shadows with roots deep into the unknown. We, in delight and angers, go to the well of the beginning and see the growth beneath trees also seeking waters and finding the light of the shallow well shaded more by those that dig it and use it, the many celebrate its life and curse at its droughts and politicize the actions of the memory well. If we make upon the boots and the buckets and bring water to the cauldron, we feed and have these socially known and locally important recipes, and the cauldron just a big pot made of metal from local mines, filled with stuffs of nearby finds, or the travelers and traders and their stories that share with us a piece of their soul and their source however fantastical, and from our feeding of the cauldron we feed ourselves, and from our court of our state among other countries in world and realm and myths, and the well and the metals and the roots and the waters from the underworld, with news from afar could only brag or lie about escaping and finding another storyteller, which stands on the closest side of the smallest hill in all the yards of earth thereof. To the nourishment and news we escape the falling of the night before, to find the features and the futures before it falls again and makes us think and rest, the rest will think only of this world between the dawn and dusk, beyond the other detailed maps and moving men on roads counting between ten and ten million that trace in both two and three directions for the followers, our thoughts like feet our hearts in the best of able directions, where we exist beyond the boundaries of details and doubts unknown so great a void of ignorance the stars fall as tears of constellations on the wild and sleeping earth as humans sleep between their worth, in the unknown and disconnected from the time between our times unseen by the divine imaginations in our minds when eyes are closed, in the time that feeds dreams kept beneath our tongues as wild thoughts in the forest of time that grows and souls filled with conditions safe in the boundary of perception, in the presence of the oldest living thing to find us squandering at the well devoid of purpose like a serpent and a ring.