Sickly sweet bubbles frothing the surface of black water. Once still and putrid now the dim light creeping throught the bare tree branches dances on the face of the swamp. Even the wind you can sense moving thoughts and seeping inspirations.

Yet unnamed, yet instilling into my consciousness.

Archetypes become markers on the path, if you're willing. From sweet childish eyes to the darkest night. The night you could not have called onto yourself without losing the heartbreak.

That heartbreak. That wind. Coming in Spring and coming in Autumn. Sweeping through, unsuspected.

Suspicion thwarts synchronicity. It won't see you or hear you. Not only clarity of hearts and crosses make me invisible. That inward eye also refuses connexion when you hop that fence. When you hop that fence. When you hop that fence nothing looks the same, nothing feels the same. The farther you look into your own past the more alien and beautiful that room seems.

These other rooms of view build themselves every hour you are away. Every time the twinges in the body release the chemicals within us the perpetuate pain the walls are self lifted. An invisible energy of malice and mystical quality brings nails up to hold tight the walls of perception. (opinion)

After opinion comes the separation, the path becomes a wretched twisting in the abyss. My secret name.

Singularly we perceive in gnosis but in darkness there is a weakness we can, none of us, escape. I am grateful that fate does not exist. Your fingers slip all over it. I hope it slips through my hands forever. Never to grab hold again, it stains too readily. No cleaners for some stains. Only the willingness to carry it well or to let it lead you always away and ever to that space we are dancing around right now.

What are you doing right now?

Give it all up for this or that. The actions of a life are the expression of the will of the individual. What you think/feel/do are all a apart of a most fluid continuity of your self awareness. You are what you eat.

Take that as a little thing. The doing! The doing! That which is done. Yes, you can pick it apart and number it, multiply, divide and understand something. That brainy knowing is not omega.Those piles of notebooks do not contain me.

Years of self documentation only prove one thing, that I value life and the experience of life. That those things must be shared by together-experience, conveyance and retelling.

You are not the only one. Ever.

Math said so and he is the Grand Pimp Daddy.

You can learn from dirt, shit, tears and sleep. The way organic matter forms itself, gathers itself. The reliance on the natural world of which our bodies and blood memory are still in unison with and forever will be.

Simple cycle prints my heart. Fills in my story and turns those details into knots of lace.