The climate changes. The critic returns. Inmost discussions. In what direction do we yearn? Filled by appetites, desiring utmost freedom. Such ardent skies, golden feelings. A casual whale, an inner behemoth. To see parts, to feel fragments, touched in spirit. To wonder the crucible of theologians. Things we never utter. So many faiths at terrors. Too much to explain, not enough to relate. Many temples; many secrets. One imagines solace, what it looks like, entering a spell of dimensions. A soul leaps into orbit, finds a mirror, rationalizes until it aches. The soul of its letter—seeing as we journey. Many tales about enlightenment; we pass by caves, we enter pits, we notice snares. By sunshine, filled with illumination—walking gently. Never said what affects us; never claimed to be above it. Maybe a decent prayer, some light meditation. The climate changes. The critic is alert. In speaking about the author; in moving through wilderness.
