Good black ink draping its way over my white-lined pages.  Words winging their way into freedom.  A plain black ball point is the key to my birdcage and my words are dandelion seeds, blown by my lips and carried by the wind.

Double exposed photographs carry twice their weight in beauty.  Maybe even more.  Some strange blend of science and religion merges one and one into one. Sometimes this alchemy makes one and one merge into many.  Captured human faces feel sacrilegious, as if it were possible to capture the divine.

A ray of sunlight streams in my window, obscuring my mirror.  And for the first time, I see clearly.  This mirror on my wall and in my heart is far too distracting, its shine convincing me of false reality.  Its not just appearance, its flawed reflection.  Maybe broken mirrors don’t bring bad luck.  Maybe they remove luck altogether.

Books and books and books.  Packed in boxes, closeted in my imagination.  Thousands and thousands of pens creating a world.  The ultimate expression of hope.  Printers and publishers pouring out their ink blot pages, each offering an individual rorschach test. It doesn’t matter if we see the same thing.  All that matters is that we’re both looking.

Words and words and words fill this cavern in my chest.  its not a heart that beats inside me, it is words.  Written, heard, read, spoken.  Words beat faithfully beside my lungs.  And those words pump blood to the tips of my fingers and toes.

Beauty is my new religion and it is practiced at the altar of humanity.  I see divinity reflected in each passing face and no creative sacrifice could be displeased with my fascination.  heaven means nothing if earth is ugly.

pour me a glass of wine, dip this chalice in the nearest ocean.  and let me feel.  let the waves and the words roll over me and let the sunlight and your lens be my only reflection.  this may be salt water.  but i intend to drink deeply.


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