A meandering of thought, image, and language.

A free flowing feed of words. No thread necessarily connects each entry — except, of course, for that universal, unifying, point already mentioned: the exploration of language, thought, image, meaning. 

The aim is to create a breathing, living, thing: each part, each word, speaking to some specific experience, some peculiar singularity — the whole speaking to whatever emerges from all its parts.

The goal is to make it as organic as possible, as unfettered and unrestrictive as the platform allows.  This shall not only be an experimentation of content but one of form too. For this, I ask patience and time as the thing comes into being and takes shape — beauty must be nourished, birthed with love and care. 

The hope is for the readers to see the thing grow and to grow with it. In a not so distant vision, the goal is to incorporate some form of collaborative input so readers can contribute and enliven the platform. Together, there are no limits to what we can create.




the universe yearns your childhood again —

a new childhood, one that springs from within


do away with all the nasty things you think you’ve seen! 

melt them away 

with fresh thoughts of new beginnings. 


dont you see only you hold on to them?

dont you hear the laughter from above

at how you take yourself too seriously? 

come hither, dear one, sit down

we've been waiting; 

the kids' table is being set 

and soon it'll be ready.


light! color! paper! crayon!

let yourself return

to your proper place of being, 

let your mind wander 

back into the beyond

birthdays, yesterday, tomorrow, today;

weren't we all birthed on the same day? 

— it's strange, isn't it, the things we celebrate. 

how do you tell when a flower was born?

is it when it budded? when it sprouted? or when it was sown?

the years come, the years go —

do i grow young or old?

i'm unsure. 

all I know is i am here;  

 the wind blows.  

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everyone is the master, everything the teacher — 

an infinite loop, all pointing us incessantly back to the mystery of all things, to the infinite weightless ground from whence we all came. 

for, aren't we all the same? aren't we all made of the same stardust blown in the cosmic wind? 

and, yet, each set of eyes I look into intimate infinite and pristine depths, unparalleled mysteries. 

strange, isn't it? all the same yet all unfathomably unique.

The only conclusion I can arrive at is that everything has something to say, something to teach. Each part was fashioned for a reason — each thing speaking to some part of the whole that no other speaks in quite the same way.


what are you ? what do you speak?

what mystery was gifted only to you? what secret whispered only to your ears?
speak it. bring it forth. 

we all eagerly await. 

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the fool sits by the curb, 

caressing the grass; 

each blade whispers to him of a life that has passed.

with his ear and with his song he brings them to a laugh —

the laugh that's laughed, since eons past, by all who madness have. 

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we were never cast out — 

we walked away. 

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dancing lightly at the edge;

the world of sensation 

 in the cup of your hands.