arriving in the middle where all plots suspend the caravan of loose magic rolls into town
bumping along an almost familiar road scenarios swerve and sway history no longer consigned to make sense jars and slips from under the skin
strange landscapes offered by the brain mine the subconscious speak images in many registers give wonder and irony the heave
because it is a dream the dead live again linger in the permeable reveal the shape of wind
navigated by the dreamer the curve of time does not exist nor the buzz of endeavor with its industry and sweep
somewhere a clock alarms a surfeit of life will stir and forget while the caravan of loose magic heads off to its next destination
- Les Bernstein
Meanwhile, someplace in the world, somebody is making love and another a poem.
to fashion universes out of emptiness
Many on the spiritual path rightfully long for a sudden point in time when a shift happens
The seed of life is within us all, our dance here is mundane, strange and wonderful.
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