Empty of struggle and replete with possibility, I meet the page unfettered by convention. For a mind exhilarated by exhaustion, anything and everything is open to reinterpretation. Solitude rendered absolute; no graceless distraction. Silence made holy; no retrieval from the brink. How to outrun quotidian considerations? How to distinguish between the rarefied and the fundamental? There is language. There are limitations. There is the writer…feeling soundlessly.

‘I slept with faith and found a corpse in my arms on awakening; I drank and danced all night with doubt and found her a ****** in the morning.’
- Aleister Crowley