Wonder if in the words of your own mind you would like to read. But not too coherently. Not all the way, wondering. Just like when you put it down there and there’s something to say but you don’t have words for it till it’s put finally down, there. And there it is. You have it, for yourself. Share with me if you can words. For this. Like that. You would think. If you knew what to think, you would think: shit. That was exactly what. I had to say, you know. I could write it down there and leave it there and know, it was true, and it was true. Bent like rain falls in off arcs and doesn’t choose. This, too, like you, like me too. And the way heavy falling of gravity on your back on your legs on your lungs walking up the street’s incline. You, too, know it. Should not drink quite so much. As you are, but you are, and you know. This, too, a respite. But to come drooling from a dream and wake here right here in your space by yourself brought back to this. Trusting it is true. While not too too long ago you did in fact see, the layers or hanging curtains of reality part for just a little while. Folding inward out like fractured light off a cell of air. To almost as though it was almost like though. Some perceptive slip allowed you realize. Everything you experience as real and your life and here, now, is only a tiny layer to the condition or quality of existence. And you can know, now. For almost sure. There is so much more, out there, all the time. You can go to sleep and dream and wake up and forget the truth all the time but still know, deep down, in a part of you. Till right then right where you bridge yourself to the eyes of another in a small moment, having a conversation. And you’re having it and you don’t remember but there is a quality to the light, on them. And maybe you can reach another second longer being alive and maybe you can know it’s not just you experiencing all this condition to being human. Or don’t you, already. This, too, is a respite. And tried folding in-following in to the speck of the heart’s heart’s heart. Good scuffing good soft mine eyes distract feeling from itself knowing so beautiful, now. Then this, too, responding whole to it: this sound like love moving through the universe all the time, your own breath your own heartbeat carrying it through you. The can the can’t the will the won’t burying thoughts. The cool returning simple peace. The hungry the comfortably hollow space filling with warmth comfortably. Thinning time thickened life. Thirst quenching from gratitude. This zillion breaching arts being met with a meal and a bed. To face how you can scream into a microphone finally and feel for yourself. And come up finally from the splash to surface in splashes and breathe surrounded like a gel treasure in cool. This, too, a respite. Lying down on your side, say thank you. To yourself, to the air of the room, to God. Try to give God the benefit of the doubt. Try to give giving the benefit. To rest to be able to rest to be able to try. To. Hushing loving angels outside your life calling back like they care for you, knowing. Knowingly. With no clue, but trying. Trying this, too. Trying. To look in, for once for real for once. To try to be. To. Wait. Here. A while. For truth to be. To set in. Into you, well. While you’re here, waiting. For good, for once, for all time. West, west. Over and over for all time, it seems. West, west, west, west. To truth of what? No, to home, no. To bed. To rest. But that is home. Yes, that is true. Yes, we are home, now. Let us be. Glad. Let us be. Hopeful, for the good things—for the future. For all time, for all that time seems. Let us. Be. All. Together. You, yourself. This, too, a respite.