Ash Wednesday

"If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word."


There is so much in my head.. yet to explain it, I do not know how to begin...
The infinity of it all... the fragility and the expansive everything.
From the macro to the micro.. there is nothing unremarkable. (It's almost too much..)

Is it possible to share the tranquillity of being alone?
I would be content to sit and smoke [with you].


[No, the irony of T. S. Eliot's death from Emphysema is not lost on me]