Lunacy

In this there is an essence, a vein of thought which when mined yields the mystical complexities to examination. It comes upon us desultorily without cause, and when we are conscious of it, it falls from us. These are the lost things, the images which mean more than experience, the passing dreams of a less physical mind. These are the expansions of black, the starry infinite sky, the dreary sands overlooked by cloaked men. They are thoughts tinged with red and black, but they are felt with innocent and calm cognizance. 

Here's the place before the start from the dream, the cloudy rooftop before the flailing fall. It has no tangibility, yet all of us experience its beauty and easy existence. It is a place where we throw our brains about and contemplate infinity. Yet it is a place we cannot search for; we fall in and fall without time. Here, there is truth in a place of false happenings. This is The Farlight Lone.

This has as much to do with anything as the universe is geocentric.

Yesterday, I was at the fishmonger reading words, words, words, on the caking shores of lunacy. This is Ptolomy's dome and earth is a star. I feel like an instrument of fate.