The space that makes music. The chamber that holds the laser’s light. The pregnant pause and the open ended question that enshrine the realms that could never be held within the confines of the declarative or the referential, but only the allusive.
I live within the bell of the Earth, but I am not slowly-growing green life of sun-wrapped light. I am telluric, the hidden music of the magnetic and the insubstantial. I am an alien chthonia. The inner and the outer night, a band of light between, but my own light is the inner fire. It speaks of its own and stands upon no other, no foothold or stronghold of the will. Spirit, moving of itself, creature of smoke and fire in service to god, the breath of life.