Distilling Thisness
Since you know a soul cannot be extracted or even quantified by anything like reason, or in these easy hours of starlight clothed with the hum of toads, you discard the charts and sentence stems and bask in the blooming sensuality of elemental radiance. You said, each thing is a thing that is never another thing, but always connected to every and all things. You are your own apparatus of embodied knowing and unknowing. This one and exact specificity. From the corner of your eye, or in what you tell yourself are dreams, the tiniest drops begin to fall. You decide to remember, or maybe imagine, it could be something like what you call real. More than an optical interference of liquid immiscibility. The astonishing essence. The everyday dispersion of color, light, ether, vapor, and heat.
Dear Suburbia 