I just raised the window shade,
As the darkness of night, fades away,
A gray and white sky, starts to appear,
As I tilt my head to look up high, are the clouds, far, or near.
It’s five thirty in the morning, the last Saturday,
In June of twenty, twenty five, the only sound,
An owl in the distance, and the ticking of seconds,
From a clock, counting down the time, I will be alive.
A peaceful view, the dominate color, is green, no movement,
Everything, so still, mother nature, creating another beautiful,
Peaceful scene. I’m at my shanty, on the east side of Shaubert’s,
Bridge, where it cross Maxwell’s creek, as it flows,
A southern direction, away, a quiet place, relaxing,
My soul, and mind, a very solitary, location, to connect with nature,
As many thoughts, come and drift away, why I was so,
Lucky to be in a place, many just dream of, every day.

                                          The original Tom Maxwell © 6/28/2025 AD

How many rythms we are and who listens.
We are inaudible.
No body can escape history, only in dreaming.
The dreams dream the missing body.
The mind escapes in its architecture, an unstable jungle.
it evades in dreams too
The dreamer dreams what one cannot think.
Concepts are birds on wire or double edge swords,
one edge cuts the density of the world, the other one cuts the body away. The body is the musical canvas of the mind.
Ideas don't exist without a hand, without a tongue.
Everything transforms into other than itself,
the body becomes mind, the mind becomes body.
Thoughts turn into motion, sensation  into image, images turn into words, colours, noise, an eternal hum,
we are the toys of a god of life. 
 Everything vibrates in a potential field of meaning.
Every tribe of cells has its own sense of time and grammar, 
In between the empty space improvises.
The mind is a martial artist, it rehearses its moves with conviction and pathos.
The body absorbs reality and feeds the mind,  it is an amplifier of life.  
These words are passing through my mind, my chest, my eyes, my hand,
I don't know exactly what they mean.
How much sense there is in a touch,
how light or rushed or heavy or shy or joyous or furious or screaming or ardous or defeated or uncertain or afraid.
I carry the other in me when I dream their bodies.
Then you move away, stay or dissapear, who knows.
 Communication moves through the body.
Everything that is alive finds a way to be. 
 Everything that is alive finds a way to destroy its aliveness.
The body resonates inside the body of the world.
The nuances of light gives the eye its intensity,
the movement of darkness moves the mind to fill the blanks.
A shared chemistry binds us and how much effort we put to disentangle.
Full succes is impossible.
There is no escape from being alive until we greet the great unknown, I suspect death is alive too after all.
we already know many ways of dying, we pretend not to know how life can render us lifeless.
Frozen, constricted, unflowing, circling, dying bit by bit.
Nowdays we die with speed in our eyes, with surprise.
What do words dream and who dreams the words?
Who dreams the world and who shares the dream?
I don't want to be captive in anyone's dream.
Let's share the dreaming,
from some dreams
there is no scape.