When night closes her eyes, day is
imagined; when dawn blossoms, the moon is
gently blown out.
sometimes the world simply needs to
shut the fuck up and let the
comets have their day.
Sometimes a firefly illumines all the known
galaxies; why limit your choices? all of
this lives inside us; why go about
business-as-usual when the butterflies are
calling your name?
As long as one is breathing, one’s
choices are illimitable; and when
breath stops, the possibilities are
multiplied by the number of
stars upon the night’s mantle.
And this, my friend, is why I
drink—because the Night drinks with
me—and oh, the places we go!
Art is an attempt to create order from
chaos. Chaos always wins. But we
make art anyway.
I stand accused of believing that God
speaks to me: belief has nothing to
do with it—I’m not a big believer in
belief—must I believe the sky is
blue or that day follows night?
Secondly, I know for a fact that God
speaks to everyone—it is simply that
very few people choose to listen;
do you hear those crickets in the
night? (Good, now dive deeper.)
The Truth is resting on your
eyelashes, tickling your sensitive
parts; of course God speaks to me—
we have been Lovers since before
time was time.
Of course God speaks to me—that ,
isn’t the point:
Shhh, listen! the birds are calling, the
mountain rumbles, the stars buzz like
bees; listen:
HE IS SHOUTING IN YOUR EAR!
