In absence of the few, a current flows lightly and if the blade of thoughts lingering fade in the wake of tomorrow, a gasp will follow. The lone tendril curls and reveals solace for tomorrow, a million syllables found in infinite sounds.
Here, there are only cauls waning in the night where the preacher surrendered his hands and revealed the anchored eyes of the subdued.
We were only sleeping, the coma of the waking, the silence of the breathing, the Ides stretching beneath the fount and bow of the Nazarene--