He adjusts the light, draws the curtains and the dog watches it all unfold, tired. Later he will lecture - that is the word - on the relationship between silence and faith. A dozen minds slowly converging on a single idea equals what? The brook hums quietly beneath late winter ice.
Stars make music, too, but you have to have the ears to hear (whatever that means). He is relieved that so many women are telling him they are through with Jesus, though he can't say why. Another conversation about writing when he would rather pursue an end to conflict. In a way, we are always falling in love.
The prophets who went before him gather now in a tired assembly, welcoming yet another windy bastard to their bloated and ineffective ranks. You can take your pen everywhere and it won't mean a thing. Certain roads matter more than others, and all brooks eventually converge in a single river bent on the sea. Yes?
When the self falls away it is most natural yet also incredibly new. He wonders who reads and whether and how they will ever meet. Boundaries matter but transgression matters too. Just how comfortable are we allowed to be when it comes to loving what is infinite?
Maybe not very. The room brightens slowly, the dog leaves to sip some water and, in the other room, the woman who saved him leaves the bed in order to see how his poems are coming. He has the same dreams as everyone, emerged from the same cave, and that was all she taught. We walk around as if there were more than this vital - this lovely - this shared - singularity but it's enough, it really is.
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