"… hope she is feeling better. Have a good night yourself."

The ember of the day fading, so the small electric sparks that lead from corner to corner all the way home are now apparent, where before their minor lights were lost in the grander, warmer rays of the sun. A friend departs. The engine stumbles back to life. The CD that had paused picks up where it left off

life is the red wagon simple and strong
the life is the red… is the red…
oh it's no big deal

Because it is the fragments of song which our partial understanding somehow threads together into sense and sensitivity. Because our greatest teacher is our greatest friend, and he or she is not always kind. Because the forms of our destruction merely remove the walls that hold us apart… so long

"So long! Hope she is feeling better, and that you sleep well!"

What is it I am saying when I say it: so long. It is not au revoir or à retour, neither auf wiedersehen nor geh mit Gott, not até logo, in fact, not anything at all that I can derive but a length of time, too long, so long, so long.

but when the feet are draggin'
oh
you pull me
and I pull for you
you pull me
and I pull for you

And the stars appear because nothing hinders our perceiving them, since now they are sparks of color on a lack of light, are black presenting white, so that with their amazing flecks of distance, punctures in the veneer of Nothing, we might wonder at how, behind it all, there is Light;

And from the static and splintered objects we bind together to make an imagined fabric, the clothing we wear — "this is life"

Even less comprehensible or defensible than the strands and syllables I here dictate, from this we can see that indeed what we try to make distinct is white on white, that every touch we take slowly enough to feel, every bite whose content is noticed by the tongue, every movement of the hip that catches the eye, and eyelid which flickers in reply

Is white on white, and what anyone can write is merely the shadow of sense obscuring the perfect horizon of the page.