The soul has many motions, body one.
The stones were sharp, The wind came at my back; Walking along the highway, Mincing like a cat.
So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.
How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.
By daily dying, I have come to be.
Over every mountain there is a path, although it may not be seen from the valley.