There’s a distant place, a delicate
vision created from the memory of
questionably reality. Believing what
was there may be the shadow of what
was only part; we see the evidence of
wind but not the actual wind. Soon the
absurd becomes real, a parallel difference
difficult to discern like the layers of an
onion; the pieces cry themselves to the
floor. We call upon the angels but their too
busy to answer. We claim the rightness
of the story as the belief settles in.
This type dark, isn’t just yours.
Roger Singer 