There are yearnings of the heart for that which did not; could not and will never happen. The sun sets at dusk, time for the curtain to go down or the house lights to blacked for the opening of some recycling drama.

Silence is not silence in the city but just a quieting of the beast to now only the sound of breath. The night takes in light outlined movement erasing certainty. The night takes light into itself and holds it to move a sigh like air over the internalizing lives.


It is all shoes on in the morning, step, march, move through something making purposeful paths to some outside definition of a goal, or some pale tattooed dream markings of a desire on our maps. We think we are in control. We check our costumes in the mirror.

But as the split opens between the seasons of the day, of what presents as one, we feel the breath of the beast of yearning. And there is gaping sadness, this cavern of falling away. A soreness awakening for those things we are not even sure we have felt, or failed to feel, or desired to feel.

shadow truth

Resting in the space between this and that, we are not. Undone Self dissolves all elemental structures. The darkened house. The anticipation palpable. The utter blankness as we sit with empty hands waiting to see what we are playing at. We languish together in rows of  collective obscurity.