Four a.m. holds me in its arms. A skunk - a white blur in darkness - picks slowly through underbrush, unconcerned about me. The house smells of apple. We are all in motion.
Why when I think of you is it always with such sadness? We are not bred to any condition. As light obeys its laws, love obeys its laws? One grows tired trying to reason through it all.
Money is the root of nothing yet it can certainly be a most pernicious branch. Avoid photographs of yourself praying. In my dream I was jailed, or at least ran the risk of it. Illusion equals incarceration?
Hold this for me, won't you? Up the road is another body that yearns to be untangled from matter. The scientist runs the same risk of fundamentalism as any Christian does. I like some movies, others not so much.
And breathe. And accept responsibility for dancing. No stars beneath slow-moving rain clouds. How tired I am, writing this.