Preparations for the winter solstice have begun.
In the morning, I can embrace the floating droplets of rain with my hand.
The fog erases sharp edges. We are all a single cosmic blink, with no generations.
Tickets to eternity are still not for sale.
Everything that only seems real now could truly be real. Everything that is real now can become distorted.
In the long afternoon darkness, doors to hidden worlds open.
It's important to practice walking ballet-like on tiptoes.
Because, if one wishes to speak with fragile, slippery, flickering, and wondrous beings, one must sneak, whisper, rustle. Leave intentions of truth in hard heels.
Almost fly after lunch, into the night, into the soft darkness.
