Grasping that magic remains the framework upon which our existence rests we must hold our breaths without the hollow reeds to carry us hidden downriver stacking up into thatch-roofed houses we blow our dreams through to set them afloat on the sea of eternity which is to say the fire it takes to burn those homes down would never have been set without the water with which to douse them and from which all their kindling grew into the fallen monarchs of the forest we are so deeply within we cannot be seen even to ourselves when discovering each other in a place where darkness becomes impossible while time unwinds from the stellar depths haunting us all visibly each night while we exhale our pent up sleep so we may reawaken the following morning to a brand new day having secured that after all we are
The passage of spirits through time describes us; one soul refracted. What came first, the beat or the heart? Of course, they are inseparable aspects of the same thing. The difference between them and epochs of galactic evolution amounts to YOU and ME. This swiftly becomes all that we can know about it. Every cell in our bodies has captured a drum beat, like a bird in a cage, or a hair emerging from a single pore. The lashes of the eyelids, the glossy vitreous mirror of the cornea, pivoting on the center of its own self-reflection; the distance between a black hole and a star: that's precisely what we are. Like spun nickels on an iced over pond, we unfold. Holograms of silver trees lined up on the looking glass. Drinking the scene in on our knees with our vision as moths migrate beneath the moon.
for Zane Sounds in the attic merge with timid stirrings from out doors amid every wooden creaking with just one window left open in this old house as the curtains surge and whisper like ashen bridal veils to impart twilit mystery sunkenin the dark murmuring unrepeatable secrets with the night already half dissolved into hushed dreams where rows of pale eggs await