It is decided that memories are best bought. There is a heavy stone trough, redolent of daily life in a rustic setting. It is imported into my garden. I do not have any livestock which may drink from it. When it came to installing the plumbing for the hand pump, I ran out of money. If it rains, the trough is full of water. There is moss, and eventually a certain amount of slime. Worlds awake from the stone. Ghosts of horses ghosts of dung the flower beds are trampled all over. Awaking from the green water, strange squiggles of living things. Soon the insects bite.
Woke to the words (and it is only ever words which wake me): be prepared to be on your way on that last day. The same shone first (and if ever anything wakes me it is only light). Shone first, shines within, and this same light will shine out at last. The word wordless when these, wordless, have many sayings yet little string to hold them. So how is it, wordless and stringless, they have their world strung together?
Time in both directions is inconsistent.
Any inconsistency makes time timeless.
The space runs without knocking any edges off.
We are one and we are another, without edges.
Paucity and the deceased. Beauty and the least. The boat pulls out, escaping the intricate device
of the word worldless, of the heist, a sea stolen of its ground. The bottom dwellers struggle, finding not the bottom.
Lifted fire twisted around this fallen knowing of forgetting a candle. Neither fire nor smouldering just the gathering in anticipation of together. Another note of repose enthusiasm proddedtoward meeting in the future.