2003 - Unbound

Carl is writing, and Nick is staring indefinitely into the stars and somehow this old pencil with dinosaurs on it, worn down from travels in the pocket of my bag has found its way into my hand, scrawling in a book that is unbound and unwound, and the pages are falling out-

... sometimes I wonder who keeps juxtaposing every one of my perceptions until the understanding of it can only be measured by the temperature of the sensation that is traveling underneath my skin- sometimes it's done purposely by some.... one... like me, and other times, the wind, it just blows the puzzle piece into place- either way, it just happens- and it is every storybook, and movie, and song and sensation while at the same time being mine.

What a blessing, either way, or wherever it came from.

The birds sing their graces from the trees

A section of my journal resigns to gravity by my knees

And I have resigned to my hand and this pencil, and my eyes from the sky to this journal, and I grasp for words when there are none, only to share this with you.