Tides are always running out somewhere. The sand forever slips through the polished bottleneck. Earlier the dog limped to the window and growled at nothing. The option we most want is the one we most fear. And no, I am not talking about God.
One longs for silence, any vestige of the faintly remembered sacred. One sits up with the moon and the pine trees and the on again off again love affair. When you come to see if I'm okay I can't speak and so you return to bed and sleep and presumably dream a happier dream than I can manage. He laughed a lot and his laugh frightened me. When you opened your box the first time a sort of light emerged, a sort of jeweled light, and there was - as there was in those days - some blessing, some grace.
This writing will likely not be published. As soon as you are read - as soon as you know you will be read - the writing changes and you do too. The third sentence contains nothing the fourth will not. My dreams last night were energetic, even optimistic, as if some benevolent conductor was paying special attention. Surely there is a life worth living even though I have never found it.
What I am talking about is the familiar cave. How tired I am of fools and their noisy praise! Your city ruined me and all my priesthood. There is no time now and there never was. I mutter the same old prayer, locked in the narrow stall where years ago a horse was shot and your initials - always - are carved in the fireproof floor.
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