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The power comes to us by stealth; its mathematics is pure, too pure for numbers, its music is too pure for sound. Each consequence we grapple with is livid and purple, without the blue or the red. It’s this vanishing, this numinous vacuum that holds infinite potential, and we sense it, at times, like when our curdled love glistens in the late evening, and suddenly somehow time recedes into stillness, and in that moment we write a letter, write a poem, and words are perhaps sufficient to intimate a shadow of intention, if we know how our calculus of intention responds to the filter of sense. All this, dear friend, I feel, rather than know. All this, somehow, is overt. |
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