...

I get fucking weird sometimes!  Like really strange.  I pace the corridors of my loft looking back and forth as though the greatest minds in history are sitting about my apartment conversing with one another.  These voices are not in my head, they are in my living room.  I hear their thoughts and think how platitudinous they are, a pretentious little cunt I truly am.  Only in my own head though.  I swirl the contents of the glass that provides the final piece to the tetrahedron.  Sappy acoustic songs and a longing for a flame so far away and a lack of television provide the rest of the algorithm.  I sit on the 15^th of 27 steps and challenge the voice of every person that has ever lived, myself included.   I ponder and record.  The words dancing on my screen like a stripper at amateur night begging for Benjamins are the exact ones that smash themselves against the walls of my cognition.  I have so many words.  They won’t stop.  My life is being narrated by some stoic poet yet I have the mind of a child, incapable of truly understanding the gravity of the words he is using to describe my life, my interactions, my observations.  I’m just here listing while these smart men banter back and forth in my living room, spilling their wine on my couch.  It’s obnoxious, they never clean up after themselves. 

white light

And like that the once dark room is alive with light.  Where have you been hiding my creative gnome?  My brilliant little bastard that dances about my mind with the grace of a jack hammer.  Perchance the rub that does you silent is the one that is known by many as happiness.  I was thinking today that she could never be in my shadow for she is the essence of my light.  One push will require two pulls as a kind word seems to be the act of petting a turtle.  The sanctity of a shell is really not much different than the brown blanket that surrounds the ice in my glass.  The fire that we start is meant to warm us yet we are the greatest bastard when attempting to control its wild flicker.  There is as much success in owning a flame as there is in owning the wild mustang that tramples the softest parts of your heart.  Sure, you may contain it for a moment but that does not make its essence yours.  Some say that to warm your cold hands before turning to the tenebrous chill of the night is the proper course of action, that the saddle is no accessory for this majestic.   Previously the tactic had been to set myself ablaze in hopes of matching the ferocity of the flame, a tactic that no doubt left me charred with regret.  I believe my only recourse is to sit close to the wild swirl of orange and blue, provide it with the fuel that it needs to not only sustain its burn but to grow and enjoy every bit of heat that it provides. 

To drink whiskey while others whine

Let us all bathe in mediocrity until the stench of our potential greatness has been washed clean and our condition no longer threatens the hearts of the weak.  Let us dim our own light so as not to blind those who are unwilling to commit to illuminating their own brilliance.  Let us dull the blade of our vernacular so that the childish center of man need not worry himself with the dangers of its incision.  After all it is not fair that some men should have to sit second to another despite being born of equal opportunity.  Drench yourself with gallons of the finest cologne so as not to send scent of your true character.  Sit high upon a thrown of the finest jewels that those in your presence will mistake their shine for that of your quality.  Let the women that we do these things for forever be blind by the faux greatness that is created in our own image.  Too great an emphasis devoted to the pursuit of self-expansion, to growth internal, analogous to that of a wild oak should be reprimanded with the incessant beat of any dubstep track.   Better to be small minded and looked upon in a big way than the antithesis for there truly is fewer fates worse than that of obscurity.  Anonymity is a disease that we all devote copious resources to cure.  In doing so we become the mirror image of those we surround ourselves with and gladly take the role as the most unique sheep In a heard of seemingly unique sheep. 

To drink whiskey while others, wine.  That is Divine.  

isolation and the conversations that occur

How can I say this but to say that I am filled with hate?  Boiling over with disdain for every other creature that walks about on its two feet.  Stark raving mad with the waste and the filth that I am no doubt the cause of.  I am the human race, my unbridled antipathy belongs to me for I am the belly of that beast.  The color, the custom is different.  The words, the worth diminished.  How easy it is to affix blame on one that you have shed all likeness of internally.  Despite having the same message their book holds a different title and in turn is of a lower faculty than the one that you would also kill for. 

The hypocrisy of the race to witch I belong bludgeons my senses.  That race is the human race and I am the guiltiest soul alive.  The indifference of all those that would abandon the cause should hang heads heavy with the weight of shame and regret, is it not the responsibility of a weak man to be strong? Or is the responsibility of the strong man to carry those who cannot carry themselves?  Those who stay strong do so in the fray.  Isolation does nothing for the condemnation of injustice, there is no refuge in hiding.  If fact there is no purpose in it since we are all humanity.  You cannot remove yourself from yourself.  Every person capable of reading and deciphering these very words is as responsible to the person at their beside to do right by them as I or any other.  To say that you hate those in humanity is to place blame upon yourself for not correcting those qualities that would lead you to such feelings. 

Magnanimity has been lost along with the virtues of altruism and understanding.  But is it really the livers fault when the lungs do not function at their whole?  Is it the responsibility of the toes to do the job of the fingers?  The fact is if the hands have become ill it would behoove the feet to take their place ergo the body will starve and they too will perish.  In this, there is no responsibility in our organism that is not ours.  Hunger, hate and half-truths are the cancer that every cell in our race must make mission to vanquish.  If not you and I both will undoubtedly fall ill to their accord.

You are the problem.  You are the solution.  I am you.  I am humanity.  Let us not venture from the knowledge of this. 

On nerves

I'm not sure if this avenue was ever a colloquial one, if it was we can call this the return, if even for a moment.  The greatest poet, after all, was not born as such.  It was a craft that had to be honed as with the carpenter and sculptor.  A life spent observing is no more effective than a life void of senses.  When we do not apply the result of our observations they are of little use to us.  To balance our days examining our surrounds with testing ourselves against those contemplation is a more true expression of what a life should be.  Our impact on the world is only one if we impose it.

She said to me that she was nervous and my hands made haste to respond before the battery on my Apple product dissipated into darkness.  Perhaps I was trying to say that the greatest things in life are the ones that create an almost overwhelming sensation of nervousness in us. There is something comforting when life becomes a song that you can sing along with but what joy is there if we never challenge our ear with the divine dissonance of a sound unheard.  There is a melody in everything.

When my message could not be sent my heart grew momentarily dark. Alas the darkness would not last.  This was the moment that I needed, this became a time for reflection on all the nerves that have recently pinged my senses to question my every step, the danger in discomfort the the unease of the unknown.  The single most terrifying moment of my life occurred just a few weeks ago.  It was a perfect storm, the culmination of so many events.  Following the purge of all but a pack of my earthly possessions I stood gasping at the airport preparing to abandon a life that was no longer working for me.  After the decision to leave all that I had built to venture south to a nation whose language I did not speak, whose citizens I did not know, I met her.  I became entangled in the one entity that it pained me to leave.  This is the game that life plays with us.  A flawless plan interrupted by a perfect possibility.
For the first time ever I stood completely unsure of the next step that I would take.  Finding my isle seat and settling in was supposed to be the release that I had waited so long for yet the electrical impulses firing from head to toe where made apparent by the physical manifestation of my trembling hands. I could leave my business, my friends, my home, my possessions, my life but could I leave her?  It was the second impossible flight in as many weeks.  I managed to survive the first, I can live through this one.
The wheels touch down and I am completely alone.  There is no one in this entire country that knows me, I know no one.  I step into the heat of the early morning in Central America with out the ability to request a cab or buy an apple.  I had hundreds of miles to go to make it to my destination.  Alone.  Completely.  Ten minutes of pacing leads me to sit upon a concrete slab and breath.  The world becomes easy in these moments.  I am alive.  I have no master, no deadline, no responsibilities.  The ever mounting uncertainty mimics the release of a volcano and as though the molten ash had been settled for generations, a soothing serenity washes over me.
My mind finds this transition as the exchange occurs, a colorful bill for a single beer from the shop by the beach leads to making long slow steps to its sandy greeting.  The repetitive beat of the music resonating from club speakers gives way to the push and crash of a rhythmic wave repeating it's caress of the shore.  For a lifetime this moment consumes.  Every salty inhale fills a chest with hope.  Just days ago there was such uncertainty, there was a consumption by nerves that the act of standing was arduous.  That moment elevated an expectation, it made every moment of unease that may present itself in the coming days as effortless as what to have for breakfast on Friday.
Was her nervousness different from that which I felt?  The feelings, I assure you, are ones that we both have yet there is not a glimmer of activity between these myelin sheaths.  For the fear of redundancy I must state that the reason for the lack of shimmer was not the result of a lack of emotion, this has in fact been all consuming of late.  There is no fear, however.  There is no question or lack of confidence, no apprehension or concern in this case.  There is no need to take a moment to sit and ponder the ramifications of all previous and potential actions.  This decision is simple for it's not a decision at all.  No warrior who commits his belly to a grenade considers it's consequence, he acts out of unwavering love, out of instinct and having previously been in situations where sacrifice was expected.  If this blast is to be the end of everything I once knew I more than welcome it.  I long for it to penetrate and consume all that it can.
To put it as simply as I can, to love her is not a choice and in turn produces no apprehension.  Breathing is not a choice, it does not warrant nervousness.

Oodles of doodles

A million eyes dance upon me
Their sweet soft serenade sings me to sleep
awake I am when alive in your arms, I am here
A breeze that pushes me to step
A scent familiar, superfluous longing
Pressed forward by the black river
Life lives in motion
To resist leaves heart and limb exhausted
Breath the stone, navigate it or rest upon it
Bathe in the twist and turn of intentional surrender
Do not care to care not, care to flow.





What walk is worth wanting
Vial venomous vituperations
Unanimous utopian euphoria
Tumultuous tyrants taunt tenebrous teens
Sediment settles
Redundant ridicule replaced by ridiculous reincarnation
Quite quiet quills
Preposterous porcupines pondering platitudinous plans
Obstreperous ossification overdone

The first

Concealed by the cover of night and tucked from sight
If open to enter, yet this eve my heart doth surrender
Too many hours spent resisting, the images of all I've been missing
Dance atop my thought and are emboldened by the last whiskey bought
The anticipation it's killing me, one more lean will set us free
Distance disappears until my pulse cheers
Rapid in step
Lips connect in jubilee when pressed to those of my dear Jenna Leigh.

Cash

I'll be your Cash if you be my Carter
You be the vest and I'll be the martyr
I'll be your gasoline just keep being my fire
You be the wheel baby, I'll be the tire
We'll go round and round this world together
I'll be the breeze, you be the feather
I'll be your urge if you be my desire
You be the art that I love to admire
You're already the lesson that makes me feel smarter
So I'll be your Cash if you'll be my Carter

A footprint in sand

Burning bridges with borrowed lighters.
Beyond bridges, a world ablaze.
Pitch black in the center of the flames
Bending time for the sake a rhyme.
living, dying, laughing, crying.


Burning bridges with borrowed lighters.
Procuring punches from professional fighters.
Running rampant with regret filled sorrow
Turing attention to today's tomorrow.


Place your stones upon my shoulders, I will carry them
Place your burdens a top those boulders let me grow weary with them.
Give me your fears and doubts and I will bury them.

The deadly breeze

That faint crackling of facia when pulled from flesh
That white connective tissue does well to adhere the skin to the meat
That is the sound my heart makes when I am made to separate from you
You are my skin.

Tito's gone

                His dusty boots stepped off of the back of the C17 cargo plane and made contact with American soil for the first time in six months.  In his left hand he clenched his M4 assault rifle, it was the only part of him that was free of the dirt of the war zone that he had just left.  He knew that it was his life line, the only thing that stood between him and the devil during so many of those midnight excursions that he had just executed.  He was a seasoned operator by this point in his carrier.  Hundreds of combat missions had left his gaze as hard and sharp as the knife he carried.  Over his right shoulder was a small pack slung with ease and filled with two bottles of water, some jerky and every letter that she had written to him during his time away from her.  The hard lines of his jaw were hidden behind a fierce beard that was needed to blend in with the indigenous population during so many ardous low profile missions.

                He pauses for a brief moment on the airfield to allow his lungs to fill with the scent of his homeland.  It is something that so many people take for granted, he thinks to himself, that simple smell of home and all that it means.  The smell of war was still fresh in his mind and this moment was the first easy one that he has had in some time.  His brothers passed by him under the cover of night on the way to the old white school bus that was picking them up at the airfield.   Each of them with their perfectly cleaned weapon and pack that looked small in comparison to their broad shoulders. There was no parade, no cheering crowd, no confetti, just a pitch black tarmac and the cloak of darkness that they had all grown so accustom to. 

                Most of the men joked and sang on the bus ride back to the compound, songs that would appall the most seasoned construction worker.  Their humor was hardened by the life style that they had volunteered for.  They were warriors and made no apologies about it.  As another verse began James quietly reached into his bag and pulled from it the stack of letters bound by an old piece of 5-50 cord.  As inconspicuously as possible he lowered his head slightly and took in another long, deliberate breath.  They still smelled like her.  Would she be there when he returned?  He hadn’t been able to reach her for the past week, even if he had he wouldn’t have been able to tell her that he was coming home.  That was the nature of his job.

                James had met Jenna in Las Vegas just over a year before.  She was a rare beauty that seemed to make the air thick and difficult to breath.  James was instantly impressed by her wit and ability to speak on everything that he found important in life.  Her playful brown hair bounced and flowed in such a way that would make any scarlet of the 1940’s jealous.  When James saw her eyes he swore that he saw a set of peals amongst the stars.  Her smile was so deliberate yet so uninhibited that it easily made the otherwise powerful man weak at the knees. She flowed with a charisma that, in all of his travels, he had never before seen. 

                The two danced carelessly and took shot after shot together, something that caused their careless dancing to increase significantly.  After several hours James went to get another round of drinks for the two of them but when he turned, to his terror, she was gone.  He hadn’t even gotten her name.  Here she was the most angelic thing he had ever laid eyes upon and she had just vanished like a modern day Cinderella.  Fate had a much different ending to their story than a brief encounter of a few dances.  They came to find each other online within hours of returning home.  The physical distance between them was of little consequence.  They messaged each other multiple times a day.  James would wait with anticipation for Jenna to respond to a funny text message.  Several times he found himself in the back room at a crowded party, deep in conversation with a girl two states away whom he had only met once.  On paper it didn’t make scenes but in his heart it was the only logical thing to do.   She quickly became his oxygen.

                Every chance they could they travelled to see one another until the time when James had to deploy again.  He needed someone to watch his home and take care of his dog while he was away.  His dog was a scruffy pound mutt that he rescued two years earlier that he had ironically named, Son.  She was tired of the grind of her job and wanted a fresh start.  In a move that was very untypical of her Jenna agreed to stay in James’ condo while he was away.  His place screamed of a military bachelor with a two thousand dollar flat screen on the wall and a hundred dollar couch.  There was nothing on the walls when she moved in and the plates may as well have been made of Styrofoam.  She didn’t mind though.  There was something about James that was so unique and magnetic that she had a childlike curiosity when it came to him.  She was drawn to him immediately and while she would never admit it she would do anything for him. 

                It was 1am when that old white bus came rumbling up to the 8 foot brown fence adorn with razor wire.  The men excitedly piled out one by one and made their way to the armory.  It was a familiar dance, turn in your weapon and night vision, get full accountability on sensitive items, and get a couple of shots from Doc and hope that the higher ups would let you go before the sun comes up.   During the process one of the snipers rolls out a keg and the men begin to sing as the cups get passed around.  James takes advantage of their distraction to move to the head of the shot line.  He has one thing on his mind and it isn’t Bud Light.  By 3am they boys are given the green light to go home.  By this point some are so drunk that they end up staying in the company area and sleeping on the concrete floor.  Not James, he ducks out to the parking lot to find his old Dodge pickup right where he left it six months ago.  As he pulls out of the gates the same old George Strait song starts playing in his CD player, it’s the one that reminds him of her, the one that he tortured himself with on the drive to the compound a half a year ago.  He had endured the most austere environments in the world but leaving her was single handedly the most difficult thing he ever had to do. 

                Every light was off as he pulled into the driveway.  His heart raced.  For the first time he allowed himself to think of all the danger and violence that he had embraced so that he could get back to her.  More than once over the past six months he was faced with a decision, take another man’s life or risk never seeing Jenna again.  It wasn’t something that he gave a second thought to in the moment.  Nothing would keep him from her.  Here he was now though, only a dozen meters from her and he realized how much he truly loved her.  She made him weak and strong all at the same time.  James quietly exits his truck and makes his way to the front door being careful to open it slowly because he knows that the hinge squeaks. Out of habit he kicks his dusty combat boots on the floor as his shaggy old dog, Son, comes to great him.  He smelled different though, he smelled clean.  As James’ eyes adjusted to the low light he noticed a few things.  There was paintings on the walls and a coffee table. 

                He flowed quietly through the house instinctually, an instinct created by hundreds of night time raids, flawlessly navigating around every warped floor board.  As he slowly pushes open the door to the bedroom he realizes that not only does Jenna sleep with a pistol, she is a very good shot.  The humor of surviving dozens of gun fights and coming home to be shot dead by the women you love is too much to not make James smile.  He takes his chances and pushes forward into the dim room.  After a time that feels like a longer than man has stood upright, he finally lays eyes on her.  The moonlight has traveled tens of thousands of miles to sneak through that window and fall perfectly on her cheek.  A trip that light would admit was well worth it.  The light grey blanket slowly rises and falls with her breath and James is paralyzed.  Nothing, in all of his travels, ever stopped him like that moment did.   He stood motionless for twenty minutes.  He felt a warm salty single tear roll down the right side of his face and into his beard.  The gaze that was once as hard and sharp as his knife melted into the sincerest look of admiration and love.  He took the final few steps to her bedside and kneeled beside her.  Gently James brushed Jenna’s brown hair behind ear touching her softly down the neck in the process.  She let out a faint moan and quietly said his name.  It was a sound that filled his heart with jubilee.  Jenna’s eyes slowly blinked open and looked up at the man who she had waited all this time for.  Even through his thick beard his smile was easy to see.  It shined through his eyes.  In the sleepy voice of a child Jenna, half asleep, asked, “James, are you home?”  As if she was dreaming.  A dream that she no doubt had every night for the last six month. 

                With his hand still on her neck he leaned closer and pressed his lips to hers.  Jenna’s  eyes opened as though she just received a shot of adrenaline when she realized that this was no dream.  Her hands moved up and found James’ body.  His ribs expanded when she touched him as though he was flung into freezing water.  He inhaled all of her in that moment.  As he did, she let out an intense moan pulling him on top of her.  While one hand pulled him into her the other moved to his head.  Her fingers flowed through his hair until she found enough to grab.  Her lower lip was clasped between his teeth with just enough pressure to not draw blood.  As his right hand clenched her hair his left hand slid down and felt her naked body beneath the sheet, trembling in ecstasy.  He traced the lines of her body as far down as his arm would allow him without parting ways with her divine lips.  No force on earth could keep their souls from each other in this moment.  She immediately found the collar of his top and removed it as though it was on fire.  Her hands danced on his unkempt chest.  There is a new scar laid a top the powerful muscle that she had come to know.  As he realizes her concern James grabs Jenna’s hand and moves it to his hip.  It doesn’t take long for that hand to find his belt.  Within a breath the belt and pants hit the lamp shade on the other side of the room.  The moonlight is all that separates the two lovers.  James’ muscular body hovers inches from Jenna’s.  With the head of his throbbing cock he can feel how wet Jenna has become in a matter of seconds.  He pauses, for what seems like an eternity, he pauses.  She can feel his heat as breathing becomes shallow.  Lips quiver in anticipation.  A mutual audible inhalation occurs as James slides every inch of himself deep into her.  Both are overcome with pleasure.  Jenna’s hands grasp his firm naked ass and pulls him into her again and again.  His left arm wraps firmly around the small of her back so that he can generate even more power.  His right arm clasps the back of her neck as his mouth moves to her neck.  In as stark of a contrast that can exist he gently and tenderly kisses the space just behind her ear as he violently thrusts himself deeper into her.   Jenna’s head tilts back as her back arches and her beautiful breasts are perfectly illuminated by the light of the moon.  Her thighs begin to tremble as she as breaths in deeply.  “Ohh my God!” she proclaims, “I’m cumming! I’m cumming!” 

                This was James’ favorite part, he genuinely enjoyed her ecstasy.  He lived for it.  Jenna’s entire body shook as her nails embedded themselves into James’ back.  He welcomed the feeling as he realized that he could no longer contain himself.  His coil becomes like an anaconda as James reaches climax.  He tries to pull out but she pulls him in deeper.  She wanted every bit of him in that moment.  As he took her ear in the clench of his teeth he cam with such force that Jenna’s nails sunk deeper into his back drawing blood.

                The adrenaline surging through his veins was tenfold what he had ever experienced in any fire fight.  No battle could compare to this.  Nothing could compare to her.  He felt himself shaking, their two bodies glistening with sweat and pleasure.  For an eternity they gazed into one another’s eyes, both realizing that there could never be a future without the other.  This was the moment that they both wished to echo throughout the remainder of eternity.  They would spend the next 24 hours exploring every inch of the other.  Not hunger or thirst or fatigue could part them.  They were completely perfect in that moment and would continue to be as long as one held the other. 

I'll take one for the other and work my way through this machine

the tongue swells and cracks in the short absence of hydration.  Three days, three years, it's all the same for the cells constructed of simplicity.  Two parts this, one part that, the language of our being mimics that of our soul.  Paradise a prison.  Humanity exists beyond the formalities of hello, goodbye and otherwise.  The complexity of exchanging pleasantries does as much to quench the thirst of a mind on fire as a cup of sea water does for amelioration of drought.



It's not starvation that brings a strong man to his knees, rather removal from the most basic of necessity.  Life breads life.  Exile, be it self induced or otherwise, results in a cognitive thirst without relief.  We must be cautious when building a cabin.  We must understand that replenishing one's cup is not a process ideal in isolation.  We must reach out our root regardless the distance between contact.  The drop of rain that falls upon our leaves is exciting not quenching.  For that patients is paramount.  Denying impulse, delaying gratification, allowing that drop to roll from our parched leaves into the soil so far away is the only sure way that it will touch our out stretched root.

perfección a través del silencio

"I'm writing again, these letters to you, not much I know.  But I'm not sleeping and you're not here, the thought stops my heart."

My day started with its typical grumble but as soon as my eyes pealed open a relief came over me until my arm stretched out in search of your body and when it wasn't there I realized that this cannot be paradise.  Utopia can exist only in your embrace.
Last night I experienced my greatest culture shock to date.  Not speaking the language, knowing the customs or shifting climates were all of little impact compared to the faces that I observe.  A hundred people in an open air bar, not more than 200m from the vastness of the ocean; there was something very odd to me about their expression.  Following 23oz of Imperial it came to me.  It hit me the way a breath of mountain air hits your lungs the first time you roll down the window on a long road trip.   100 faces and none had a digital glow.  Every human was engaged in the moment.  Silver pony tails and sun stained shoulders danced and sang as uninhibited as a nine year old let loose on the collected aftermath of a long rain storm.
My observations continue as another libation is delivered to my outstretched hand.  My initial count had this crowd at a hundred people which I now notice is not correct.   He was with her and her with him.  Those two dancing, those two singing, those two making eyes at each other in the corner and holding hands.  Body language reminiscent of a estranged lovers finally reunited after a fissure of time and distance.  No doubt a lifetime spent passing like ships in the night, seldom taking the time to appreciate their amalgamation so many years ago.
This moment is the greatest one in all of history, it is the only one that we control, it is the only one we feel, everything else is but a hope or memory.  We must take control of this blink for when the lid meets the cheek this moment is gone forever.  We posses a limited number of these blinks.  I  beseech thee, allow your gaze to fall upon those whom you hold in the highest regard before time steals your vision.  The greatest human experience is only as good as the souls you share it with; it's only a life if we live it.

LJJL

Certainty of life is that we will forever be changed by it, by those in it.
Those souls we touch, touch us.
When two souls touch
an illumination seen from space
When two souls touch  
an unacceptable separation is measured in meters.
When two souls touch
a world waits in whist
When two souls touch
an amalgamation of minds, a comfort found in reading aloud
When two souls touch
sustenance sustained sans snacks
When two souls touch
the deepest despair is distance
When two souls touch
a new life, a new light, a new love
When two souls touch.

An in-house Alchemy

A forked tongue tickles a miasmic atmosphere.  Sense of sight succumbs solemnly.  A necessary evolution where the serpent surpasses it's own strangling skin, a moment of molting.  Where it was once clear this world is now clouded.  An important stock to take note of in the face of vicissitude, No permutation is permanent.  We evolve beyond even our own skin growing and amalgamating into and beyond others.  Running from our problems will ensure that we remain asphyxiated by them.  Moving toward a solution is a far better race to run than flying from plight.  
There is necessity in the the act of dissolving of decaying and allowing the cycle of life to coagulate us once more.  I new version of our self constructed of all of its previous pieces and parts.  An ability suddenly presents itself to abandon the segments that have for some time caused a dissatisfying dissidence. In our reformation we are free to become all what we desire and shed all that shames.  We remove the scars of old skin and show the world our most brilliant scales.  A vibrant vehemence, visually vivacious and violently vituperous reincarnation of mind, body and soul.  This is the natural order of life.  Those who fight it are doomed to remain in the state of pre molting blindness, slaves to their own apprehension, prisoners to their own skin.














 


Does the caterpillar know it's destiny, does it know that flight is in it's future?