Empty

Incandescent streams of illiterate patterns of immemorial bliss, casting incoherent shadows of naked souls strun about like pine cones in fall. Cast the stone hear its sound infused with Dead wasps, dripping the salt from another, are these but intricate weavings of fallen particles that lost their way or abandoned their post. Where is the moment, now lost, never to be once, as if to see that which has never been. Have the possibilities faded or is our sight constrained, should we look, or is this the place of gods, Unseen slivers of experiences spread carelessly across infinity in one. More than one is incomprehensible to those that decay.