your mostly face

P,

What is passing and what is put? I hear these voices, voices with big names, real names, real voices, real people, big or little, real. To sing it. And what else? Nothing. Whatever is necessary to sing is enough. Air? Wine? Sleep? Get to the point of singing. Beauty has no form. I’m not going to explain.

The singer settles into words like bed

So you closely put your mostly face to a receptive nearly almost ears. And it hears what you bleed. Now, the ribbons are gold and silver, and you must communicate the heart of the matter of the moment of your mind. Yes, you must. And it will sound like silver gold, will it? Put your face close to your face. Then a song will sing into all the world. And all the world will be countless flowers. And rain.

Only what you find. That metallic table, or the bulbous wine glass. Knock on the door of these things and your breath is colors. Obscurity? For the rich.

Everything goes and everything comes. I’m still in the dark before dawn, having made breakfast ― eggs, toast, avocado, goat cheese, butter, pink salt, pepper ― and the heavy gold curtains are parted a couple feet in anticipation of what other than blue out of the black. And between a documentary on the DPRK (then breakfast) and one on Sufism, the mandate of a true faith system, non-corrosive to the individual path, appeared ever-so-lightly available: a lifestyle informed by all experiences, exclusive only to the extent that a human must exercise judgment or die. So, not to live well ― suffering dramatic advances and setbacks ― but to live, as colored by every moment as the sky.

,
P

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