The night is a creeper bent laden with brooding meditations and the mists of time:

Tonight, the moon is a distant jasmine bud; nascent fragrance waiting to pour into the world.

I've seen your work, magicienne, how you roll the stars out from your hat.

A wand wave, and the celestial chorus of chants and hymns pours out from the skies.

I've walked with you, on the old beaten steppe, pole star,
I've seen ships dock at ancient inlets of water
engorging in parched lands - they were reed boats before;
they were catamarans later, rafts and sailboats;

This is how we rose from the mollusc, seeking you in the stars;

When thunder strikes the lonely peak and rains wash our plains,
I've seen your footsteps, half-erased by the swelling riverbanks.

I was in your womb, and never afraid of the primordial waters. Yours, an umbilical love.

The clouds part for your evening sojourn through the western sky,
where the larks go forth spreading cheer.

I am the wood, the last refuge of all mysteries.
I am the clearing where a solitary home hangs in time.
I house all the antiquities.
I am the subtle space that hosts bubble worlds.
I am Hyperions.

Reflected by the mountain stream Have the cherubs gone over the skies, When the evening came I was all things and Now when I walk out alone from the mist, long after

the embers kept us warm When you came leading me out, When did I lose you?

my calm warm shoulder. I roll over in the biting cold for will you believe me? we walked in snow I see the early moon, silent and poignant.

If I say mon nom In my sleep searching,

Who are you? The chorus;
Who am I? I was what you said I was. Soliloquy.
The stars are rising for their dusk-dance in my eyes.

I was love, I was a mother, drawing crimson curtains to play in the park? The corners, they are all empty and faint in the mists.

I see only a shadow's arm around me - I was a teacher. clasped clad in love that others said I was.

Now, gone, none my datum and reference.

Have you gone for a stroll my love? celestial light, I walked deeper into the night, away from your green-golden presence.

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0 0 0●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0 0● I ●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0●●●●●●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0●●●●●●●●●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0●●●●●●●●●●●0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 G A T H E R 0 0 0 0 0 0 0  
0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
in the silence between finale and applause.
I/H/I/D/E/I/N/B/L/A/N/K/C/A/SS/E/TT/ES
spouting my lore until you break; hats tipped to
˙ʇsᴉsǝɹ oʇ pǝƃɐuɐɯ oɥʍ sǝuo ǝɥʇ

1.) I left your brother a fake key to my front door underneath the concrete block at the foot of my driveway. Tell him it's real; feign disbelief when he discovers it's not. Do not break to his powerful will, keep up the lie. (Don't worry about the cat, she'll be fine.)

2.) I've provided you with the supplies to harvest the memory worm and I expect it in good condition upon my return. Do not disappoint me again.

3.) The moon cycle is about to restart. Remember to water the stones, chart their growth, and make sure to keep up with your calisthenics; we don't want a repeat of last month's escape.

3-II.) Break the orange stone if it darkens any further. Malevolence is always in poor taste when inflicted upon people such as us and I do not want some rock probing around in my head again.

4.) Pawn your step-father's television, give his eyes a break. We need the cash, quick, to help pay off my polonium dealer. The man is patient, but we need to show that we're making progress; money will help. The synchrones haven't quite flourished yet, or matured for that matter, so gold is a little out of our reach, but we've at least progressed to clouds and static.

=--
===-
=====-

The vessels will soon flood over with the milk of bounty,
and the time shall come when the palaver begins to cease;
a time when words are indeed obsolete to the new being.
The vessels will soon flow with the true, fourth color.
Trichromacy be ******; we shall see things as they truly are!
=====-
===-
=--




n̷̢̬̯͙̮̤̫̪̟͂ͨ͋̅̏͒͒͆̅͌̚͢͢͜ö̈́ͦͣ̆­̶̷̶̛̹̱̱̭̝͈̤͍͙̟̬͕͈̤͈͇̩̠͆͒̄͑ͤ͗ͪ̈́͝ ̛͖̪͉̯̼̤̦̹͎́ͬͤͧ͂̏͐̀m̶̡̰̖̺̼̠̺̠̻͖̮̘̻͙̑̓͋̒̾̏̀ͬ̔ͦ̉͑̓͝õͩ̑ͭ͋̈́ͬ̈̈ͫ̓̂͗̎͆̒­͛҉̵͏̛̥̭͉͙r̶̗̗͓̻̪͑̃ͩ͂͗͌͛̂̽̈́̀̒̃́̕͡ͅe̢̛͙͕͍̹̲͐̍͐̎̄ͦ͒̈͂ͣ̾̽ͨ̇ͦ͋̀͟͡ ̸̨̺̣̬̩̩͚̹̰̖̻̜ͩͭ̔͒̔̄ͭ̓͂̚͜s̵̪̦̺̜̤͔̥̦̖͙̝̯̺͎̘̎ͫ̈́̔̎ͦͦ̿ͤ̏ͩ̌̕͞ͅm̑ͥ̾̈́ͮ̔ͪ­̭̦̮̜̱̫̻͖̔̎̐̆̀ͥ̈́̐́͝ā̷̶͓͉̼͚͕̤̘͕̰̣̩̲͍̭͓͎͉ͥ̆ͬ̎ͣ̍̏̑̂ͧͯ̆̄̓̑͗ͬ̀͞l̂̿ͨ̑̾́­̰̥̭͇͍̰ͬ͗̓̍̇͆̔̋͜͟l̶̉ͮ̃͆̉ͬ̾ͤ͑͆̓ͤ̆ͫ̉̓̾͜͞҉̝̣̙̯̺̳͕̫͍͕̮̹̝͖̹̠̼̼͈͝ ̸̨̮͓̗̝̤̬͖͖̬̪ͭ͆͛̒̎ͩ̍͐ͮ̈̿̂̓ͬ̆̄̃ͮt̆͗̿͋ͦ̇ͧ̓̉̌ͯ̆̄̚͡͝҉̢̢̱̮̺ͅaͬͣͧ̓̈́ͨͥ̓͒̚­̸̸̴̡̻̝͕͇̖̯̝̿͆̆ͬ̚͠l͈̬̫̰̺̥͙͍͇̭̣͇͙̰͚̠̦̻̜ͧͫ̒͋̊́̃ͪ̈́̀͘͡͞͞k̎ͯ͒͌̀̾̒̈́ͩ͋̓ͩ̚­̸̛̤̠͖̖͈̤̠̝̬̩̩̖̩͙̲̭̭ͮͮ́͝ͅ
̷̴̧̢͇͕͙͓̤̜͓̖̦͉̠̭̥̭̪̙ͬͩ̐͆ͩͨ̏̽ͫ͒ͩͪ͂ͦͬ̿̈̆̈́͝­͔̖iͤ̉̍̋ͩͬ͛̆͛̒͑ͥ̎ͥͧ͗҉̷̟͉̩͟ͅţ͉͚̹͚̑̂͛̉ͬͧ̕̕͜͡'̘̻̭͈̞̏̿ͩ͋̔̏̄̑ͤ̂̊͒ͩͯ̀̚͟­̫̯͓̮̥̝̩̖͓͈sͨ̑́̽҉̸̟̘̭̬́͢ ̉ͫ̊̒ͮ̓͘҉̯̘̲̖̹͍͝t̛͚͇͈̽͐̎̑͒̎ͬ̇̒̑̈́͠i̛̿ͭ͊ͮ͐ͪ̏͋͊͐̃̏ͪ̐͒ͧ͆͛ͪ͏̸̼͉̺̦̲̲̠͢͞m­ͦ̑̋ͦͫͭ͌̽ͯ͐̚͏͇̰̪̟̣̠̲͔͢͟e̷̛̥̻̟̲̰͕̤͎̭̖ͥͩ̄̊̇ͥ͋ͮ̓ͮ̑̎͒ͣ̾̋͡ ̶̴̷͔̟̦͍͕̦̞̖̬̖͛ͫͧ̀ͪ̌̓̊̉̐ͭ̐ͦ͊̕t̛̙̣̯̗̫͔̠̝̥̞͚̏̄͋͌ͩ̈ͪ̏͝ͅo̓ͬ̈̏̇̊̌͛ͦ̌ͤ͐̆­̸̝̣͎͖̲̟̗͇̰̯̇̍̈͊̕͜ ̴̡̘̥̲̙̫̞͎͔̘̦͔̎ͧ͐̒̈́̆͂͆̇͒̈́̓̊ͫ̾̚͞ã̇̏̀ͮͫ̇ͧ́ͭ̇̏ͣͥ҉͜҉̗̦͓̦͓͙͍̱̝̗̲̗͘c̐̾͊­̨͑̊́ͯ̈̔̃̂ͥ̆̊̽͢҉̶̙͙̣̝̭͕̺̰̞̰̮̤̱͔t̯̬̝̹̜̤̲̞̦͕̺̝̳̙̯̳̼́͋ͭͬͫ̋̽͂̾̌̃̂̏̌͠,̇­̢̡̧̣̲̩̤̖̭̹̬̜̗̞̭̰͓̂ͨ̐̀̄͐ͩ͂̀͗̓̽ͬ͋ͤ̒́̚͡ ̶̨̛̟͙͕͕̬̠͔̭̽ͨͫ͒͢m̧̘͈̝̟̹̺̬̬͎̳̹͙͕̜̭̙ͪ̾̒̐̉̾̅ͫ̚y̝͍̭͒͊̎́͋͋ͨ̐̽̋͗̏ͪ̈̕͟͢͝­̠̳̥̭͍͕̳̻͔̣̙ ̴͑͑ͫ̃ͮ͋ͭ̈̃͟҉̢̺̠̮̫͎͕̯̪͉̮̹̞̕c̸͍͉̝̦͎͇̳̥͙̋̆̀ͯ̎͗͌̈̍̽ͮ̌̏̈́͐̚͘ḩͥͦ̈́̀ͩ͆͐̿́­̸̱̻̥͙̳͈̙͚̫̀i̡̛̤̦͉͕͕̖̝̟̘̦͉͖̲̟̲͊̆͊͆͠ͅļ̶̳̮̦̗̳̂̓͛͂̋́d̨͒ͣ̂̐͑͛̈̏́͏̜͉̯͉­̣̭̻̥̻̮͎̰̦͖͖̟ͅr̴̸̰͍̤͉̦͙͎͙̩̞͕͉͈͙̻̣ͦͮ̅͂̒ͪ̏ͫ̓̋͆͐̀͢ͅè̾ͫͬ̋̽͊̂̓̾͆̅̅ͫ̎̓̚­̸̸̡̡̭̖̥̯̬̪̮͎̳͚ͩn̶̵̵̯̘͓͎̳ͥͪͫ̆̆ͯ̾̒͑͛̉͊ͩ̍̈́͌̓̈̕͟ͅ
̵̧̫̐̽̓͒̓ͤͫ̒̉̇̔̏ͧ͌̕͡­̣̩͙̱̺̞̤͙̰̬͖ͅ

-
߇ᆃ↿⊬❝ᆄ༺ᒦᅣ↑
Remember, you are not at fault here. This is all my doing.

Sincerely,
Mr. Cuttlefish

The sky is a giant gramophone of the valley flowers.
from a brooding repertoire of pin-disks
singing to me in the hymns rumbling out song

This late dusk, I am the last sheep that
got lost from the herd, now heading across the pass
in the hope of finding my home.

All my life is on trial now. You are all the people
here and I am in the dock. All that I have been
brings me here. I see amused eyes, and eyes
of suspicion. I know them eyes, these are your eyes
these are your people, and I know you.
To learn our language? I see dispersal, dismissal.
trying, to learn your language. twirling in the men.
I see disinterest. Girl from the high country
I see your moustache don't learn languages no more.
I see laughter, Yes that is what I have been

Oh my holy heavens, that I see home in those eyes.
And I said, hallelujah. at the edges painted red.
have come misty-eyed And they said, come with us.

There is a hope for home. A hearth here, not on flat.
On a *****, I have to found what I could a fire there.
Now I be over and laughter, all my hopes Moist corners
ancient tongues speaking to my soul. from this far land
come alive in tending to the home, embers break
a Cossack girl where you and the children live.
The rainbow carries, moments of reflections unlocking  
to those distant shores  and tears like mist and rain.

The air is wet in the moist tears of the sky
vacant, and full of the fragrances of the hill flowers

Lone bird flying tither, looking for shelter.

adorning her forehead dishevelled the clouds
Looking confused, Phantasm woman hair
the early crescent moon  looking lost,

Long travelled, when the soul longs for home,
there is none but the parnaked sky. Some warm clothes
familiar arms, a favourite soup. mirages a thirst.

When all is lost, there is hope. There is soul.
Wide earth, Call upon your vicars,
to learn your language and to be as you are,
to sing with the echoes and vanish with the shepherds.
I come here in homage, find me a home,

staring at the floating lamps dotting the dusk
distant hamlets in salsa with the stars.

Alight, for here, the bus stops.

Like the story of mists on these hills, no one knows where it all begins and what it brings to bloom, when and how. Life, this mysterious journey of mirages and miracles.

Growing up, falling in love and marriage. Years that rush by like the moss-laden corners. The joy of cherubs that descend and grace your lives. Some late summer rain tears by the river on these gorges.

One-way ticket to go live rough like the winds on these bare slopes.  The cherubs are out on their vast journey of discovery. You hoped, but it was all crumbling, bolt in the sky tore your lies apart.

You are here, amid the lilt of the hills and the music of the stars crackling up into eddies late in the nights. The ageless loneliness of life, and you have no one. Mute in this new haven, speechless in your unfamiliarity.

Should I sing like the shepherd Should I weep like the clouds parted from all their be-longings and tossed about by the stark stubble on the aged mountains? The air smells of rebirth. never another sunset winding into the valley, Does the river jump in the joy easing into the clouds, carefree like there was that I know this people. Now I am the sky. this snow-cladded dusk I am all the stars. hanging over the world? of the the flints that scratch effervescence of the moment, or does she weep at her heart laden in endless procession? Clouds, swirling dervishes, exodus of the sheep fire in the bush

I can take marshrutki by the dozens, heading out into the no-w-here.
Humanity, your only hope, and kindness, your only god.

Walking past spiral arms of galaxies I hid myself in folds of a warped
reflected on the morning walls, timeline; deeds that filtered all light out.

Bent clocks, warped doors, stretched arms, Awash in the waves of your G-rays
But your song found me. bathed in sublime warmth;

I see your finger twirling universes out, I've seen your hand pick me up
your lips kiss the flaming skies. in every timeline I've walked.

Which manifold do you inhabit, I know you, time-traveler,
miracle-monger?

Hymns, hushed whispers,
a hundred jasmine buds,
the distant stars,
synapses.