Still me and the warmth inside, firelight, whiskey in my belly, the cold outside, winter white winter wet. Slick streets, Motorcycle crash sound like ocean waves that just sway the way they are supposed to, no purpose or intent to them or the sound they make.
Still me and the grinding sound, still lilting to the wall of sound, swallowing fruit fermented into that concoction that alters our state of mind. The music takes me to other worlds. The klonopin doesn't help. Or it does. Helps the sway, helps the sense of calm and wonder and drowning.
Right now it's dark where he is. Usually it's the other way round.
The black orange glow. It's missing blue. Pink edge warm hinge so fine star spatter in my mind never gets the chance to reflect on the ceiling anymore. Plafond-Céleste is gone. Gone. Gone. Buried. Rotting at the bottom of the lake. Not the ocean. The ocean is where she would want to be. But she's buried in a lake, under piles of stone. If someone could retrieve her body, she could be revived. She would have to be taken far far far way.
That's why I haven't visited here in a while. Been too absorbed in the world. The material place where we forget “Man has no Body distinct from his soul; for that called Body is a portion of a Soul discerned by the five senses, the chief inlets of Soul in this age” (William Blake). The material world is just the place where the body lives, but we forget and begin to believe it to be the most important thing. That is only a reflection of our level of loss.
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