(no subject)

I'll tell you how it was. A day came when our shells were gone, and as we stood up we each of us heard the wrong music. We followed it, crashed into each other, careened down slopes, through caves, into creeks. Ended up everywhere. Stopped everywhere. Sat down in the sunlight on the green or stone or sand.

The days became our shells. The music that we should have heard still near us in the air.

Ever think about that? What you most needed to hear at that critical time - you know the one, but many others since - is there in the sounds we're hearing now. Scattered, mixed, drowned. But there. We tell ourselves it isn't, but it is. It hurts to think so? Yes. And kills to not.

(no subject)

Medication change. Hard to think straight thoughts. Kind of a nice feeling. My head is very quiet. As though without what is distinct enough to be phrased there can be no "sound." Just water motions, colors.

The Young Pope seems well beyond me right now. Re. 1.4:

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