The rest

I find myself lucid and wandering, cast among swirls of fancy and delight

 

The rays upon the earth, baking a clay mire for me to wander through... That mystery of old, like Lot's wife...

Here I stand, a pillar of salt....

 

 

 

Questions fill my expanse, rarely does the universe ever afford an answer to my plight, which is a mixture of fever and faded delusions...

 

 

We wander aimlessly through the void, seeking to find our intent's repose with meaningful songs or the ecstacy of penmanship...

 

Yet I wander aimless and with no composure, for the light has left my hand... Seeking and finding some haze of consious contact, an effortless mystery that never ends...

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