i am sitting in a tree,

manifesting manifestos. magic is in the mere making of it, the process itself, conjuring conjunctures. perhaps more apt if yet abstract: the moment-to-moment absorption in doing, aligning thought, word and action.

the over-wired mind takes its time to unwind, reaching in from behind to find nothing at all, an inky chasm of pure possibility.

home is where the heart is, which is to say, where you are.

my roots are fragile saplings, tender to the tethering touch.

well i don’t know where I’m going and I don’t know what I’ve done,
but i mean to say, steady on let’s just follow,
let’s follow the sun.

(at 3:08pm the air turned chilly, slithering around my shoulders like a sketchy arm in a dark elevator. I grew famished, and departed upon the following line running a ribbon through my mind:

Would you mind, never mind your mind, the gap between you and me where we might be, were you to see?

Now, where were we?

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