A metaphor is like the weather: intimate with indeterminate spurts of growth & decay. It is the willfulness of random heat that offers us touch or its stunned absence. What is the "weather of metaphors", becomes for us the intimation of our mutability.
Everyone knows that for each of us, the metaphor of interest is always the weather to come. Not even the old relish the weather that was. The ardent long for the rise & swell that will satisfy.
Look at a river & see the stillness that gathers after every rapid. Look at how every pool of quiescence empties again into turbulence.
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