A screaming comes across the sky.

A screaming comes across the sky.

Laboring through a world every day more stultified, which expected salvation in codes and governments, ever more willing to settle for suburban narratives and diminished payoffs--what were the chances of finding anyone else seeking to transcend that, and not even particularly aware of it?

But as with Maxwell's Demon, so now. Either she could not communicate, or he did not exist.

She thougt of sunrise over the library slope at Cornell University that nobody out on it had seen because the slope faces west.

The Saint whose water can light lamps, the clairvoyant whose lapse in recall is the breath of God, the true paranoid for whom all is organized in spheres joyful or threatening about the central pulse of himself, the dreamer whose puns probe ancient fetid shafts and tunnels of truth all act in the same special relevance to the word, or whatever it is the word is there, buffering, to protect us from. The act of metaphor than was a thrust at truth and a lie, depending where you were: inside, safe or outside, lost.

Perhaps its familiarity rendered it temporarily invisible to you.