The smallest detail, like the way you carry a coffee cup to the sink and rinse it, reveals the cosmos.
The rapture we overlooked.
Stirring the compost a little after dawn, adding lime, a sense of something lost - or gone and never to return yet still known - pervades.
Troubling ourselves out of false peace, seeking instead the deeper peace to which all troubles can be brought and seen anew as not-problems.
Counterargument: thinking well is actually a valuable skill, one we've got to do better with.
What helps you worry, what helps you go beyond worry, you need both.
Divine Cephalopods, brought to this psyche on towering waves of psilocybin and fire, remind me again what it means to be tentacled.
How the ten seconds they waited on the scaffold became an eternity in which the world they helped bring forth - unwittingly, half-assedly, in utter stupefaction - now participates.
For starters, less parochialism please.
The new therapist laughs, "far be it from you to be dramatic."
We reveal the secret, learn that it wasn't actually a secret, begin again in this understanding of honesty and - by extension - nonviolence.
Neolithic cults the spirit directed to sip hallucinogens from the hollowed-out skulls of their ancestors, thanks ancestors!
You still think it matters, being expert, being consumed, being constructed.
Eschew the signifier, what happens.
By afternoon the heat becomes too much, the morning glories wilt, smell of something burning comes down the river, itself a bed of stones not bread.
Nobody is who they say they are, but that isn't their fault, since saying who we are is in fact the one thing we have been encultured against doing for at least ten thousand years.
What is not written exists but how.
The seas begin to boil, whales cry for mercy, the garbage of a billion selfish apes catches fire and is visible to denizens of galaxies a thousand light years away.
Let us pray, now that sex has collapsed into communion, let us pray a lot.
Hawaiian Bobtail Squid, may I not forget you when the first of us leaves.
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