Black Boxes at One Another's Doors

Morning. More than morning. Fog on Main Street. The rooster's throaty cries beginning later than usual. Who is here and who is not? And who is asking? 

Our hands are nearly always in sight, a nontrivial aspect of our productivity. When the octopus visited, I tried to get him to stay. A kind of fluorescence. Influenza? We are productive at odd hours, we are getting along.

The scale of things. Even our gods and goddesses are just narrative threads sustained by the neocortex. What you want vs. what is given. And yet insight happens, becomes a kind of aperture through which we glimpse the firmament, and beyond it the furnace, and beyond to the Perfect Blue Stillness.

So much has been said already.

Pain where my liver lies, aches in both shoulders, and a willingness to read less, learn less, which feels like acquiescence but to what? When you are in love, the world brightens, and when the world brightens you forget everything including, eventually, love.

Let us not leave black boxes at one another's doors. Hands in pockets, hands on the wheel, hands in hands, et cetera.