Ironically most of its meaning hides in plain view anyhow, roots inter-related (like pieces of twine separated or maybe woven into place as decorations) and consecrated by sacred origins. Words aren’t dead, you know. No more than seeds… Melody and rhythm takes shape, as we make it in the making, some say creation; that’s sound and timing made into pictures if you didn’t notice. Symbolic. Magnetic. Moving like movies, patterns take form in between the beginning and ending, and yet never really ending. Linear like a reel spun, perhaps on a loom, perhaps in a womb. A film strip like umbilical silt, snipped, and somehow placebo can function like placenta if we imagine it? The remix, re-cut, a new day, a new script we wake up to again. The past our pretense, the future wrought from our sutures. Confusing, are the mechanics of the mind. Badly greased, our gears start to slip timings, seize up. Have you ever heard a music box unwind? Frail like braille bumps and bruises, at times, barely recognizable. The familiar. Family. Fame. Famine. I want you to think, dear child, like an umbilical empathic tithe untethered. Quantum entanglement, a butterfly effect upon the weather, felt so deeply as if it were never severed. By this great schism of feeling, you are feeling your way… Crawling catterpillar with only your ocelli, setae and antennae, cursory senses for sensory satiation – and yet this deprivation will someday be your salvation. Wings resembling our ears, impulses resembling our fears. Our souls alight when you come near. Fluttering… Oh dear, dear child. Just how a pearl forms from foreign matter seeped in through the cracks – a grain of sand trapped between shell and mantle – encapsulated in layer after layer of nacre until we are no longer naked but resplendent in our iridescent irritant now known as a gem. Their Emperor has no clothes, but you? You know his secret, secreting and leaking like an open enclosure, broken…because once upon a time that was your cocoon too, held tightly closed in repose…now left behind, a home that once was. From stillness came motion, undertow of the ocean. My dear boisterous oyster, with golden wings like the voice of an angel, this mystery is yours to show and tell; but only if you listen, and keep it to yourself, will you know it well enough to share it with me – this rarest of alchemies – that which turns Hell into Heaven: a cursive script written on the tip of your tongue says only: Know thyself. Cryptic, yes, but… try speaking it aloud, and then forget what it says, and listen simply to the sounds. Sounds. All around you. Sounds, surround, You…