The Constellation of Wholeness
Invisible to the naked eye.
Made up of six trillion wild guesses.
Longing for perception.
Sensitive to rejection.
Home to chaos.
Form the wagons into a circle, it will confuse the infidel – one minute a string of wagons, the next a mysterious circle that sings to itself.
Progress is a sleight-of-hand trick in the cold cave of hope.
Crank up the technology and steam out of the harbor. Everyone on deck saluting in your dress blues. Except the guys in the boiler room and deaf captain with the glass eye.
Only the basics have significance.
There are no words for what we strive for.