Think of this…
… as a rave, a rant, a rock, a roll. Think of this as a goof. Think of this as a trial balloon, a smoke signal, a searchlight in the night sky. Think of this as a reflecting pool. Think of this, if you think of it at all, as a mumbled prayer spoken in the dark hours and full sun of a day in a life of a speck of the whole. And think of this as the whole.
Something burns away. Something burns and burns, even now, even still. The whole world collapses and something burns. And what remains stretches out, wriggling fingers and disjointed impulses, touching the keyboard, touching the edge, touching the gray fog, touching the ground. What remains reaches out. It does not know what it is looking for. And, of course, it does.
There will be no rules here. No assumptions. Expectations will be stopped at the door and sent packing. Maybe. There will be no rules here. Not even a rule about there being no rules. How could there be? This is not me. This is not mine. It never has been.
Git out the way, Old Dan Tucker…
What’s left? What remains? Sit quietly in the glade and let the breeze hold you as you wait. I will wait at your side. If we are lucky, the rabbit will nose its way into the sunlight.
And we will see.
TTG