With the death of our ruptured consciousness, it's arrival, well, conception, came not unlike Spring. At first, it was all of stranger things: the soft buzz of bees, the bashful, bushy-tailed tops of trees, the waft of warm cherry dawn, the dew, and the grass. Then, from far-off, blew in the storm...(more) It is the composition of an anecdotal existence, the removal of a self, strung by the wire of folly, and a movement toward the recognition of all things. Of all things, which belong to us.
Of all things of all things.
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