mirrormoonheard a song that reminded me of your creations. hope you're well.
eric there are still dreamlands on our earth, I saw them in a painting by Heba cradled by a quiet sky save for all the echoing of lost songbirds, how lovely in knowing there's an elation resolutely uncoupled from everything I've so bitterly sloughed off, how lovely in knowing that an emptiness only after its been lived in proves itself useful in pointing to something true, how lovely no indulgence afforded here could ever graze her colored strokes, how lovely a tongue grows from its betrayal of little silences to an echoing of lost songbirds I've heard in a painting
ericjoy, you leave it by the wayside and remember remembering it until you don't. or you pluck it for yourself or another, which is a funny thing to do because then it remembers remembering itself until it doesn't. sadness is the sound of remembering remembering
ericthere is water and the sky fossil's rippling white with moments of inertia disguised as frozen time, there is the mirror's eternal flower and softly the scent dissolves and I will ache for an ancient home but distance is how I've known the way and heavensward the barriers of every day
ccnAn ambient moth on the bench dimly lit by blinking fireflies, on a trip to the golden cherry.
ericwistful, everything's so wistful, or I am and everything is as always. but how can the light be so gentle and not recall a thousand ghosts? how can the winter beckon in july and I fall foward into it, more familiar than family
ericevery time unworlded and reworlded everything's a bit less