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> And so each venture is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate, with shabby equipment always deteriorating in the general mess of imprecision of feeling, undisciplined squads of emotion.
The sky a mountain range which cities flow below, and a sad constellation sitting watches restless lives drift by the while we walk together. Which way will we go or where find ourselves, first here and then—when? This way the world walks steady without us. Night goes by and days dream themselves into being while all week we work for what we want or wish without knowing. The blind know better this way and an eye failing signs the next sky. Four horses in an empty field stand a temple waiting for the moon. Abandoned now a guardian employed leaves at odd hours and shapes skulk in charades of old ceremonies now unknown. We wander with glassy eyes asking ever to see more than we are given, we were given our own and none other yet never is this enough for the fall feels us having forgotten some strange sign. A dream initiation invites below but mind hauls back a net flapping dead upon the deck of day.