February 6, 2014
The night has been as uneven terrain beneath my wandering soles, a cycle of sinking and surface breaking, disorientation. The wee hours of morning are alien to me, sweeping, bobbing and kissing their way along my exposed cheekbones. The cavern and precipice of my slumbering existence wooed awake and ushered into the arms of symphony. Suspended in the pulsing hum and color of experience, time and space have no voice here, only texture. Wrapped quietly and firmly in the stronghold of a new-day rain.