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The rest
I find myself lucid and wandering, cast among swirls of fancy and delight
The rays upon the earth, baking a clay mire for me to wander through... That mystery of old, like Lot's wife...
Here I stand, a pillar of salt....
Questions fill my expanse, rarely does the universe ever afford an answer to my plight, which is a mixture of fever and faded delusions...
We wander aimlessly through the void, seeking to find our intent's repose with meaningful songs or the ecstacy of penmanship...
Yet I wander aimless and with no composure, for the light has left my hand... Seeking and finding some haze of consious contact, an effortless mystery that never ends...
