This is a classical moment. A moment in the life of writing and non writing. Days when it's okay to come very close and let it go because it was so close. And close is good. When it's okay for it to be left just out of reach and see it become smaller and smaller in the distance. The thought and the will and the intention to be written down in black and white.
Words about nothing.
Then it's a moment in time of perfection to be put down. The multiple meanings of being put down. On paper. Or just put down. Of deliberate forgetfulness and deliberate fecundity. Of words coming in and going out. In an endless stream of tireless tirades of feelings and thoughts and findings and leanings and deliberations.
Sitting pretty. Sitting tight. Sitting down. Sitting up. Sitting straight. Sitting silent. Sitting speaking.
On paper. In small time machines, across epochs of small night time deliberations, across smells of songs and silent slinking.
With the music and the muse and the moon. An extended aberration of still lives and live stills.
Life grows longer and nostalgia grows shorter with a disappearing wick, smaller and smaller in the distance.
Up to finito
Flinging fire, observing softly settling dust on long ended moments of passing doubts.
Slipping up into a normal, stepping down to surfaces of surety and singing lispy lullabies, of mundane privations, pertinent, pleading porous boundaries of need and unneed.
Lighting lamps across a lake, on a window, on a stage. Of the painfully plain and elaborate truthing of the matter at hand, like sand on a windy morning. Admiring varnished little corners of a made up mind.