09.12.19

As in our own novels we walk the low street lights of the morning. The air around us, crisp in a most wonderful way. We are alone, travellers; each day brings new horizons. How we choose I could not say; perhaps we are chosen. Perhaps we were guided in this way by fate; perhaps we guided ourselves. I do not know for certain, if anything.

And yet, though deep thick mist obscures the landscape; it is clear to me. For there is a light that my mind does not light; a soft golden lantern, soul; illuminating.

Many things pass me by, good and bad; it means not much in the end. For the grave beckons, and I am most aware of it; it talks to me. As such my steps are evermore emboldened; for what else but immortality? I leave no claim to the past, yet I do not hasten, to what?

For on this road, to hesitate is to die; an invigorating current of lightning; thunder. Fragile flower petals; gently floating, dancing.

Who are you, watcher? Do you wish to join me?

Why then, walk.

Let courage be your blood; breathe love.

Thunder; finesse.

Deepening.

Gentle silent samurai; over the long horizon.

He lives in mystery; making his home high in the cloud of unknowing. Purple solitude; never-ending moonlit nights.

Axle.