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At some point, Jerusalem I believe; I wanted to walk the hill Jesus had wondered. And so did I walked a path. I knew from Acropolis grounds, army Greece, what was an ancient trail, and I think I found his, which gave me a new game to play, follow the leader, I be where he been.
"People say that I look like Jesus Christ. Every-time I go into a tourist office to ask for directions they say that I look like Christ. Some Jews blame Christ for all their troubles in the area of discrimination. At any rate I hope they do not crucify me."
They said it to me. "You look like..." I learned my lesson. Walk softly and carry a big stick. I didn't have a big-stick. I am a who am I. It's a guessing game. I'm gonna give you the greatest amount of leeway here, to ponder the inferences, while I read your mind, and ponder the wherewithall, of the why of which. I walked where Christ or you know; the approximate; things changing over the course of a couple thousand years, again Acropolis pondering: I wonder to what degree the same. To what degree was I there? History. A misstory in and of itself.
My word woman, you do amass a momentous of monumeantus; to quiver-me all to slivers, oh how I love you my shivers. So I did again. I walked that hill for years, a decade and more in San Francisco. I walked Christ's walk for a nigh-on. A priest's ponder; I watched them in Italian cities, pacing oblong circle around the piazzas, in
evening-coming on glow, of causeway lights, girding the confinement in flowing robes. Now that one got me.
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