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May 21 2023

The shadows made their inversions of music. No voice was raised to pitch there, but something whispered. The one who sees was sleeping. One began to write things in fire, in wings, but there was neither pen nor page. In living eyes, the writing strove against the urge to write at all. Inside the moon, fierce fish grew fins. Time’s own tongue unspoke, and whorled in urgent inhibitions. The sleeping one, who could not see, observed, at least, the lips. The sleeping one who could not hear, listened to the shadows of the mystery. Glimmering, seven silences, there. Each one a world, an angel, the before of any circumstance. By my angles, I am damned or rescued. The candle’s dire extensions are the stars, themselves. In terror and in ecstasy, torn away. The distance is the proposition from which the moon’s song issues.

The shadows made that muse’s song. No voice was raised to pitch there, yet something whispered. Implications of the light, you see. But still, the one who sees was sleeping. You observed things written in lightning, in wings, but there was neither pen nor page. In living eyes, the writing strove against the urge. Inside the moon, fierce fish grew fins. Time’s own tongue was whorled in urgent inhibitions. The sleeping one, who could not see, observed, at least, the lips. The sleeping one who could not hear, listened. Glimmering, seven silences, there. Each one a world Those angels, who strove before all circumstance. I am damned or rescued by these angles. The candle’s dire extensions are the stars, themselves. In terror and in ecstasy, torn away. The distance is the proposition.

The moon’s songs… its results.

The shadows made the muse’s song. No voice was raised there. Yet, something whispered. Implications of the light, you see. But still, the one who sees was sleeping. A lightning wrote in wings and eyes, but there was neither pen nor page. Against the urge it writhed and strove; in moonlight, one finds fish.

The tongue of time; trapped in all her urgent inhibitions.

The sleeping one, who could not see, observed, at least, the lips. The sleeping one who could not hear, was half-awake, and listened. And there the seven silences arose.

Each one a world. Those angels, who strove before all circumstance. And I am damned or rescued by these angles. The candle’s dire extensions are the stars, themselves. In terror and in ecstasy, torn by distance which is, at least… illusion.

The distance is the proposition.

The moon’s songs… its result.

I am insatiably curious about the nature of living beings, intelligence, language, and the origins of our species.

As a cognitive activist, my dream is that my work may contribute to our ability to understand the origins of our strange situation as modern humans, and assemble effective replacements for what our modern cultures are but the broken remnants and falsified costumes of.

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