I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.
I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.
- Czeslaw Milosz, Dedication

It is on nights such as this with darkening sky and skipping thuds of basketballs outside, that I can taste the coming summer evenings. Poetry and papers and headaches and tangible, pastel, rising quiet: the longing for something. What is it, that deep mover that pulls and turns us? It is mesmerizing how man in his own pattern, his own quirky Roman nose and narrow eyes, his own nervous fingers, writes out his own path to that Infinite. Gentle Being, move in me. Crow those piercing notes and have an end only when I'm quaking and crying and knowing.

pics above: Ian McKellen and Dylan

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