Careful, one step too far and the world turns to glass beneath your feet.

It may seem sturdy at first, firm thick mirror glass whose back is your deepest fears and doubts. Walk on, tread past, don't look back beloved. Below is as above as anyone amongst us could be a god in garments made for men and children. To disperse of once a year on a holiday no one believes in anymore. Take me to the pasture past the populace vineyard where grapes disguised as experts pose as wine and poetry. There is fire still in heaven, they lied when they told you nay. It burns dark as midnight in a purple robe of galaxies and nebulae. There are planets there with creatures made of magic, music, and gold. They gleam, and gaily as a girl of the harlotry of Solomon they sing songs written on strings of stars--for nano-seconds before Sirian dawn breaks on the desert sands of Egypt; then they cease. Silence is the breath of god between the inhale-exhale. Stop. When god is only conscious of himself a shiver shakes the spines of minds far from centered. Hands are only dirty as the dirt they play in. Eyes have only seconds to live before the mind destroys the beauty of their eternal being. As bees will sit to buzz without a sting, so we can sit in circles beneath the trees of Sinai, and let all our secrets breath and cease. In the long run, it was the feeling of being free, up there on that hill under the stars with the sound of the city far and distant. With the chirps of crickets drowning the sound of the one whirring motor pushing its way up the hill top. When the sky is brighter than the ground, that is when the sound of the trees orgasm--the wind titillating leaves and stamina. The racaus rumbling of passing cumulus clouds. Ever word a natural blasphemy. Ever pause divine.

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