The wordless infinitude of a divinatory labyrinth resounds on a moonless night. Stretch out your legs, flatten your ears, and sink into becoming. A far away friend wants to tell you that what happened in the past is history. Write everything down and put it under your pillow. How did you get here? Nobody knows.
For today: the color of frost, white howlite, music in the key of E, the sound of raccoons chattering in the night, and the abiding resilience of glassy hyacinth.
* * * * * * *