I wrote this last entry two thousand years ago with my arm resting on my thigh, in a night that bore crystals hanging from its open ceiling, so clear. And all I could think about was this muted, transpiring being. In its midst I lay disarmed and motionless, swept away by the rustling of leaves, broken by the bend of blades of grass, chased by every hum of trashing wings. August came and I married the wind. But still I lay bare. And as September approached I was weak to turn around and seek the same embrace. I had heard the whispers speak of delivering myself to the pure reach of being. And the sea rose and fell , and with it the bells reverberations, witnesses to the tiny marks I left behind. Footsteps. Minor blends of thoughts and feelings, immature gestures of heels dug deep into the sandy pits of being human. Of being. This sort of love or life , or arras of colors now pulsated in my core, and I flew hard like a fist thumping through layers of clouds, chasing away thunder and lightning , burning the outer crust, screaming and hammering aches against invisible foes, depriving trees of roots, stripping away branches and bark, ripping past wild threads of pain to collide with the crystal chandelier and explode. Yes, explode.