Wishful, Sinful

If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is: Infinite. For man has closed himself up, til' he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern... Loosen, then, return to flight, and soar as spirit dallying in the infernal updraft and spark, to give always and everywhere to the breath of god, to still and swell the song carrying frequencies untold and un-telling...

so our problem as finite beings on earth, is a grappling of perspective, a chance to see over the shoulder of the beast, trying to subdue the awesome power of the imagination, never to be consumed, always to be caught up in the forces and powers of the earth and its beings. Everything that lives is sacred, everything that dies is sacred, everything that moves and changes and gives and blesses and melts and freezes, slowing the discourse, wrangling the beast, helping the lover the melter the chimera the man who can't stop laughing, can't stop tap tap tapping until the sliver of a crack begins to loosen, changing states again, into the liquid, into the ether glass, obsidionic, waiting for the state to change and drool, the master's hand, the ball that won't fall, the hearthstone welcoming the disarray of fractured light, conchoidial, chaotic, and yearning for the next age of embryonic fury. Bring it. Trip the light conchoidial! Cooling now to the smooth touch, the cooling, the patron saint of clarity within distortion