Brian George's erudite esotericism is balanced by his wry wit and playful wordsmithing; these pieces are time capsules; they are soulish sweet-tarts which like words the prophets ate which were sweet in the mouth but rumbly in the tummy; these ideas are ear-worms of the psyche and continue to work on the reader after the eyes have moved from the page to the events transpiring around the reader; they need not be read in linear order; chaos would like you to do so; wisdom shrugs her shoulders and the l'il angel and li'l devil both tumble to the ground; the birds in the golden apple tree wait to sing to your bones -- all as the anti-sun implodes and time begins. I have read his early works, I have read his middle works, I have read these works: he is apostle to the trickster gods. Prove me wrong
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