The Village

In the still of the night in a remote cabin tucked away from the rest of the world, exists a place within itself.     With respiratory tides of sleep,  the snoring of the night is almost too faint to hear.   But it resonates in subtle whispers like water-bugs on a secluded pond in the middle of an oasis.     The rules are suspended here in this harbor hamlet, a tie-dyed miasma of ideas clashing and jockeying for position,  we attach meaning to these subtle pinpricks.   Suggestions emanating from our perceptions and the texture of skin and the warm breath of emotion.

Night

The night’s camouflage is perfect cover for in that stillness lies the city that no one else can see.  No shutterbug can capture the synergy that glows like the Northern Lights and burns in spasms upon our souls.   We find meaning everywhere and like the first man and first women we discover ourselves together.    Little battles form and we prepare our defense,  only to find that our own sense of oneness can overcome the me.   Our id is suspended and we present as a single flame.   The torch burns hotter than the sun but only felt by two.   The seasons give us a scale in which to measure and adding and subtracting makes it a lot better.

So I guess we live in little spaces away from the chattering crowds where we hear our own heavenly harps and the burnished clouds that come and go.

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