I find you in an image of a thought, sweet intangibility. Dying was first unsanctioned. If to suffer me a little mythology. I push away a thought. It comes back. It seems beyond physics. So much meta to it. And palming hopes; And skiing faith; knowing this feeling will be there, as it giggles, like a new imp, chuckling over raw liquor. As we tempt our guts, to live to compose, to investigate, to do research, such sabbatical wings. It entertains for a time. It always lingers. Seeing life in its passing. Passing into a situation. Watched closely. To say, “It was exhausted.” You visit often. I think about David. To debate if he knew God with depth of mechanics. To exercise it, to find solace in it, to attribute it to communion. This need for souls. This coming to community. Nonetheless, I see a picture, aside a pin, pegs sprawled upon carpet—in its choice, flooring itself, trying to feel again—those flat forests, at a second, displeased by process, sounds of majesty, veering into moments—it means more to mind than it can sustain practically. So underdeveloped. We say it ironically, “The blessing has a curse to it.” With many going back and forth with the Anchor. I portrait a scene: heart spears, mental absorption, to have a movement in souls: we ask why it captures just to unlatch it, or collect a series of ancient papyrus, sensing souls, kindred souls, feeling close enough to speak it: missing parts at times.
