I am a craftsman. My hands are made of clay. They're soft and wet and mould silhouette. The last I made were without shadow, The next will be more musical. They will be spin around me - Chimes in a western wind. Chimes of a different figuring perhaps to hang in branches, simply as decoration.
If I rest, there will be no forming. I fear this. I fear the unmaking and forever sleep. The chimes will awaken me with their shadow-music.
* Squalls and storm clouds move inside me. I hear thunder. Some say they see change coming. I see constant weather. There is purpose in their forecast, no in-decision and in a precise moment the exact snap of thin ice.
* I awaken before a bridge - reaching far across a rocky canyon. Going to the edge and leaning over I see the darkness of endless sleep. I hope to hear water song and the expanse of rain-dreaming. I wait at the bridge for a traveller like me to pass - I will ask him to describe his journey and The way ahead which I have not yet seen.