Chilly morning words form. Brushing away the crust of ice formed by dreams of last night. And other morning words of resolution. Or just thoughts. Words. With cornbread heating in the oven. New warmth diffusing into the food-stuff. A morning. A morning. Words melt, spill, tremble. Waiting to drop into space. Formed from symbols that litter the mind. And then, the thoughts on resolution. the accuracy of the human animal sensibilities.
And all that.
I run, minded, mindful, of the past and what. is. not. yet. The recent spins into the places of spinning. Words traded with new Others. And Others becoming newer in closeness.
I write like this in the morning. And let mind wander. The discipline lies alone in the be-ing. Not much else at all. But. I find no pointedness here of objective. To explore in these words. At least, I see none yet. Retrospective. And this such that we create more than we may know at the point of creation. Why is this: some disconnection with the creative self to be unfolded at some later time? I know of all which I have created at some points. Some electric instances. but of this, life remains unknown.