Time for "The Legend of Immortal Truth"

Figurative speech is paint by earlobe but not always arriving just in time: Like the form of a mother beating around the bush, "Time" is the metaphoric juxtaposition of recollection with the mathematic ratio of possibility to probability of what does not exist – even as a blueprint – a rational expression impossible to solve without irrational numbers until it has already passed. Hence at one time, the future sneaks up from behind and kicked you in the ass. The literal interpretation of time produces "Truth", an aphoristic affirmation always formless, coming out but occluded by the horizon of one's perception and therefore problematic, whether considering childhood memory or a weather forecast. The past is history (a handy alibi for the present), the future mystery and like fish or an inundated dry creek-bed, with bare hands, the present's too slippery to catch. In the visual realm, time is a comet following an invisible arc (because it's not really there) across the sky, itself followed by an unwagging tail but off at a kilter (because it is there) for all to see, and after a few revolutions, is gone for as many as a thousand years just like an Algerian plague but not always in conspiracy with earth changing catastrophies and insurrections after which we must come up with a new story because the old ones aren't jiving. To any question, the immortal answer is always "Maybe", but then, only figuratively.

Ten million million years and a day have rolled, since these events, away;

but still the peasant at fall of night, belated therenear, is oft affright by sounds of a phantom bear in flight; a breaking of branches under the hill; the noise of a going when all is still! and hens asleep on the perch, they say, cackle sometimes in a startled way, as if they were dreaming a dream that mocks the lope and whiz of a fleeting fox!

Half we're taught, and teach to youth, and praise by rote, is not,

but merely stands for, truth.

So of my goat: she's merely designed to represent the truth—"immortal" to this extent:

dead she may be, and skinned—frappé— hid in a dreadful den away; prey to the churches—(any will do, except the church of me and you.) the simplest miracle, even then, will get her up and about again.

– Ambrose Bierce, Cobwebs