Odd, odd feeling. The world a spongy matrix of words. Should’ve been numbers but I am no initiate into their mysteries, I cannot see their form.  Words are supposed to  dip deep underneath the tree of life, and bring back out of the soil the elements or the smell of existence. But these do not give. Not new, these riddles, stations and passwords. Except that these cover the world, veil asveil, and they would merge with me. Already they have broken through me, and I cannot see with two eyes.
Again I saw a woman sitting in the plaited shadow of her hut. Her eyes were blue with the world, her fingers slow with knowledge. She was one of those who tend the sand and the shoreline so the rest of us can play every day by the eternal sea. One of the caretakers, caregivers. A life spent in merging, plaiting, patient gathering of crop and harvest, endless setting to order, done and undone every sun by the ‘players.’ That work, those words, these constant hands.