160

each morning,
his first sight
was of the unseen.

.
.

159



an ecstasy of truth

— no doubt,
but it was far
from ecstatic.

.
.

158

often, he found
the best companion
to be an empty chair
—perhaps a little too often.

.
.

157

it seemed that his disasters
were, for the most part,
geometric.

.
.

156

going to take his seat,
it suddenly dawned on him
that, no matter where he sat,
he always seemed to be sitting
on the edge of the light.

.
.

155

mouth full of sand;
the shore lies within.

.
.

154

it appeared that one of the most common mistakes was in equating
perfection with happiness, for undoubtedly there was also no shortage
of what he had come to term “dark perfection.”

.
.

153

having sacrificed the better part of himself,
he now suspected that only those offerings
that were proffered by no one,
to no one,
would be accepted.

.
.

152

overgrown,
his garden produced
but a single flower—
absence.

.
.

151

in what, for him, amounted to grace,
whenever it all went to hell in a handcart,
(as it almost always inevitably did)
he tended to find even the desolation
resplendent.

.
.

150

what if we spoke
from the world instead?

.
.

149

it didn’t seem to matter where he was, or where he went, his doubt,
as well as that of others, always followed him – even more faithfully
than his own shadow.

.
.

148

he could often be found
looking out the window,
gazing towards the origin.
until that inevitable day
when he will have turned
and gone to stand blind
on the threshold.

.
.

147

being a true friend,
grief was always
there for him.

.
.

146

rising early he took the opportunity to watch the world form.

the rest of the day would then be spent wondering why it never
actually amounted to anything substantial.

.
.

145

to his ever-increasing dismay, he came to suspect that it wasn’t the truth
that was being sought, but rather only the experience of truth–and even
then only if it was pleasant.

.
.

144

it was easy to turn away from himself, or so it seemed, but no matter
how hard he tried it seemed impossible to turn away from others.

.
.

143

cupping his hand to his ear,
he closed his eyes
and held his breath,
listening for even
the faintest echo
of the light.

.
.

142

all too aware
of the fragility of the world,
he retreated into his shell
in order to reacquaint himself
with his own.
.
.

141

twigs… pebbles…
shards of glass…
even scattered,
suffice as nest.
.
.