For all my ragging there are times when I see with a cold clarity the wisdom of the path you’ve chosen. Hovering as you do out there at the edge of the intactile dark. A thing wholly beyond my talents. Broken upon the wheel of devotion. Sniffing tentatively at the cool air of the evening lands. No more questions. Who am I what am I where am I. Of what stuff is the moon stamped. What’s the plural of woodwose. Where can I find good barbeque. I look for flaws in your stance.
