When it comes, it moves too fast to grasp, made of
air, an impact like oils and water. In knowing vatic tears, in relating to
phantoms, I sense a slant in thinking. To nibble wire, to unplug from sockets,
still charged, falling into ascension. Holding from outside, deeper grievance
and light, assuming days are made of permanence (concretely impermanent), in
speaking about words, sentences, as palatial shrines. Loving in time, an art
made difficult, keeping to oath, tugging at promise. Made of beliefs, souls
parading about, often faceless mannequins … if living for love, we die for
completion, dispelling doubt – our greatest challenge. Tackling mundanity,
arranging fruits, quiet, neat perfections … needing in others, deep silent
catharses, if to sing a song with excellence. Greater a dream, numen an art, to
believe in someone, by aches to arrive with someone.
