Clusters of snowflakes falling, the hemlocks almost instantly draped. Augustine's great heart grows brittle and frail, and the need for a new analogy intensifies. In a dream I am a woman being given head, and I wake up happier than I've been in months. This is your brain on Robert Miles.
Afternoon in the hayloft, supposed to be working, but reading early versions of A Course in Miracles, happy in the way a text can make one happy. God is the light in which the universe appears, becomes legible, et cetera. Saturday mornings with Dad at the Lunch Box, breakfast before heading out fishing. Heart-shaped prisms. Yet ask: is there any such thing as a stranger?
Marks made in the dust while fools offer facile arguments. One comes to terms with the way alcohol decimated the family, wreckage that goes on giving. Pickerel in reedy shallows. Spam sandwiches with raw onions and warm beer, our hands bloody from the morning's work. Listening to the Dead and finally getting it: there's no ego, only a collective.
Fear is not a shelter though it can feel like one sometimes. We talk about Tarot cards, how to go about designing them, detour into what story do you want to tell, end up struggling to put into words how there is no teller anywhere. "Amen" is not the end. My death has accelerated, clearly, I have begun burning old journals accordingly. Figures disappearing in mist.
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