New Book: The Evening and The Owl

... as we sang out with the earth ... quiet, then loud ... loud, then quiet ... under the black sky as a human so small, so insignificant, so unable to effect much in the grand scheme of all these things. earth, sky, universe. at once a bright shining beacon, at once someone so common place, at once moving off into the twilight, at once an after thought. here we all were, an established group of stragglers, spouting off to and fro, out into the world landing where we landed without much of a second thought. and then we were gone. separated into the infinite void of space and time and memory. can you paint a single picture of your existence? do you even want to try? what will you force into a drawing you can actually read from a distance? what happens when you zoom in? are those lines refined or are those lines rough? what happens when everything explodes? from the big bang onward, how did we end up here? are we being looked after? are we crafting stories to put something up there overhead? does it comfort us? my alphabet never felt all that complete. it wasn’t enough. if it ever becomes enough, i’d be worried. these aren’t the times to be getting complacent. write your stories because they’re all we ever will have. write them now, and then be gone!

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