Stories of magic and Jung rattle through my brain in the still warm breath of darkness.
Here, we do not understand the somatic, the magic elements of movement and gesture that, devoid of object or language, speak to us, weaving their spells into the very fabric of our being, as each magician slings their spells in secret through the space. Perhaps we will stumble upon the ritual, the phase of casting, when, each sorcerous being, understanding at once their place within the circle, enmeshed with the whole and brings forth the greater than whole.
The road rattles against the cabin as songs of a hundred tongues lap lazily against the ear.
Bright lights illuminate the faces of readers, while the darkness holds the napper, the sleep stolen quickly and gently from the dark around us.
A creative madness binds is all, captured here together at the start of a period of comprehension.
The world whips past in pure darkened movement. Stuck Looking backwards I avoid the temptation turn about, and peering ahead, into the photon pierced gloom, pretend I comprehend a destination.
Instead I must divine our place from the red lit signs we have already passed. The red shift of unknown place and path. Doubly lost, unperceived, unmeasured.