8 Jul 2011

I am a dream of myself, who can see through the ghost that is the world. The ethers have flowed through me, and I am a fragrance pleasing to the winds; I have flowed myself like rivulets of gravity, which desire the depths, but are left open to the atmospheres, never to be home. Angels brush by. Halos glow in the twilight, and I am between the love and the wondering of love: half real, half swimming in imaginary solitudes. I can awake at any time. The rapid city glows against the starlit horizon, never to find itself, always below moons too selfish to tell which road I walk on. Where in dreaming have I ever looked down? For my feet do not exist, I a low-hanging cloud of thought. Mirrors have never captured me. I am a feather remembering flight.

posted by John H. Doe @ 2:16 am

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