Thunder

It's hot, it's late and the thunder rolls quietly around the humid distance. Not a night for sleeping, it's that unbearable stickiness that makes you pray for a big storm. really, metaphorically ... yes, the pathetic fallacy lives on ... those two in that film, for instance, the ones who have been slowly circling ... somewhere between a bullfight and moths around a flame ... they must burn, the blood must flow - dependent on which metaphor you wish to pursue.

... the wish to pursue ... the desire to imolate ... the need to bleed ... waiting for the storm.

Fully embodied languor ... body heat ... a sheen of perspiration.

... and inside an echo ... or a prime cause for the solipsists out there.

This tension must break, this heat must end, the rain must fall ... hard, drumming, torrential. Endless.

... and in the meantime I will caress this keyboard and tell my soul secrets to the void. Whisper in the ear of the nameless, pray for redemption, count my blessings lest the dark night consume me.

In dreams I find respite ... not in waking imagination ... but in those unpredictable upwellings and currents of the unconscious mind where I find myself unquestionably present. more real than real ... and undeniably a very different and immaterial reality ... an older virtuality perhaps. Where our gods and goddesses live, where love is pure, fear can be withstood, and the action is irrestible. No introspection in dreams, not in mine anyway. Sleeping zazen. Pure being.

But not just yet. Still time to break a few grammatical rules. For the sake of the flow, the feeling ... for the sake of the feelin', by George.