The next steps are dark ones - shall we take them together?
Night lights, flash lights, floating lights that signify our confusion about the Lord.
Turning to the rain, turning to the wind.
Who is dear. Slowing down at certain curves in the road to gaze into sloping fields in which sunlight rests.
A way of thinking in which Medusa is synonymous with simulacra. On the other hand, not everything needs to be explained. Geese pass, "geese pass" passes, and "'geese pass' passes" passes too.
Even to long for liberation is an error. From a distance, muffled voices rise, reminding me of how in winter we often speak into our scarves.
I kept dropping, layer by layer, into ego. Suddenly the story shifts and it's no longer about witches and sex but angels, salvation and gardens. "Libras are inclusive as fuck."
Small group dialogue. What is left?
We learn to touch each other a certain way, and as we age, our touching shifts in both function and intention, and this too is a form of love, this too is a mode of desire.
Crushed basil leaves, crushed mint. Finding a way back has been the familiar project of this life. The wanderer, the sine qua non.
Even in apologies, even in apologies.
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