Can't grab that fade or hold the dissolving impressions, upon waking, of the reason for the night's dream. That color in the sky will burn into my emotional registery, and it will pass onward into blue or black or gray. This slimy wet hand holding my hand in the other's grip of closeness and care will have to pull itself from our embrace to continue the necessary functions of the body and the mind, and put the heart into a period of patient, expectant waiting for the touch to return. The constant things, which all function according to an invisible schedule and routine, continue: Blood, breathing, blinking, bodily demands, and the ever-present search for understanding regulates and centers my vaporous rings of impermanent, transcendent sensory tendrils. My supernova mortality emits heat into the involvements of my feelings, my discoveries, my whipped, chagrin failures, my soulful beliefs, my whispy hopes. I spin, I pulse, I combust, I project my collection of me outward...into the void between us.
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