stationmaster

All day the trees are matched by the birds. When they take flight, their wings are leaves, and leaves are flowers that distinguish them.

It warrants probing, particularly in terms of what is the direction of words  used in such a direction. We are in this together: ti si su!

One counts pronouns until each one of them sits in the tree that’s composed of birds. The music of the birds is what occurs to them as they sit listening in amazement.

We climb into writing’s branches for protection. It guides us as we ascend to the height. It is the birds that circle and the circles that circle and the dancing letters of the alphabet that do so too.

I am fresh able to be me. Me be to able fresh am I.

When the thought is fresh it holds me. When it holds me I am freshened. In delicacy is shared delight: rare rest it grants.

The station is the origin and knows no end until it is stopped. It is not it that stops but something stops and makes sense stopping there.

A billion things have been said and these things can be tracked to the station—the station gives rise. Something is curious, words depend on it only to the extent that they have meaning being words once they have left. The station abides no words.

Otherwise I stick to the station and nothing comes of it, neither words nor birds. In a tender sense one says my home or ‘rhyme.’ How do I know the verb or whether I care for this particular insect or for that particular human being or a deva? How do I countenance that?

Nothing wraps round tirelessly. Tiredness wraps round, making tired. It can add up to about so much, making us laugh and soon forget.

For shines light. Nearby—I cannot leave because it does so only when it evinces something unbroken. When the flow of light is broken it cannot be repaired. When the flow of words is broken it is breaking that occurs and not the words.