received from the gift of caves. the utter darkness. darkness swells but cannot be seen swelling. so let me say a few things: how I am able to discover past and present and see it without the caustic reactions of association. In that: I am not the versions of myself which have been laid out by moments. I am not only my neutral, positive, or negative memories. I remember, for example, remembering joyful moments when I was not joyful. But now, slowing down. I can always take the pieces and divide them, slow them, create slivers of them in which I also exist, moving in constant cycles, portals. the ore which is not yet refined. I can refine without losing the core of chaos. I am that ore, dripping with still soil. I see ours and ours is the now, proceeding forward in infinite revolutions. I can seize and let go of all the pasts. For now, this means: loves, hates, fears, judgements. I have loved people and places: they are all transient. I have hated people and places: they are all transitioning. I have feared myself, or what others would see me as: this is now giving way to a confidence in fear. When I speak of realization, I am not necessarily realizing anything. When I speak of discovery, I am not necessarily discovering. When I speak of calm, I may not be calm. I could be an oyster, pearl crafted through roughage. Something I have read before. So I can read, speak, internalize. But it must externalize again. The tree must grow leaves, the bark must strip and regrow. There is a squirrel devouring a nut on my branches. I do not seek joy or comfort in the past, or try to regrow what has been sunken into the soil. Because in earth, there is regrowth, but it may never be identical. I think I can go without identity mirroring identity. It has not been long now, but life is but one length. In the depth of caves: the utter darkness. And this gives birth to imaginings. Life multiplies by its own engorged sensibilities. She and I are sensing ourselves. I know how to listen to energies. But if I speak of listening, I may not be listening. So listen to the silence: there is room within it for my space, and for anyone else’s. What do I know: a sound or a scope of silence which is a scale in sound as well: even if silent, sound can exist by the space with which it has the potential to occupy. And sound when held in the space between minds, the sound here has the endless vast figurative space to occupy. A third center has grown, is growing. Genius visits us without passing into the solid object forms. Because a form is not always a necessity. Our world is formless, a circle teeming with divergent points, bleeding. Our circle bleeds. I am so proud to bleed. To know that my bloody worship is not a mistake, not a cure, not a proof. It is a blade of night, a serenity of day, a chaos of that darkness in caves, where silence can explode ferociously and the loudest quake can calm the bones of all creatures. When will’s legs vibrated, when he growled, he was communicating with stillness. He is like us: he becomes still when fearful. But he, too, grows into the fear, embracing what is needed to be embraced. We are what is needed to be embraced. All of us: this music. I want you to sing to me in the darkness of caves where I cannot see the origin of voice. I do not know the origin of sound except in space. The links of our family, originating in each moment, not in space at all. So growing leaves, letting them disappear into the soil, thankfully this happens: growth, death, rebirth, death. What is death? Do you believe in death? If the words meaning is different, is re-appropriated? So much of our language must be taken for ourselves again. For each self, a word must be born and made and then given death again. Death is necessary for symbols. Death does not exist in energy. So only by our symbols do we die. Only by symbol does a leaf die. Otherwise it: falls, sits, still, transforms, discolors, shifts states, becomes microscopic bits, becomes earth again, and here is where one thing can be any thing. I learn from the now to see what is: and this is all there is: our love, a world sick, our selves changing for the better, a third center, everything has centers much more than one, your hands, your skin, you are a testament to the revolving of planets, to the burst of sun’s juice, to the dance of jungles and the dance of stars distant and close. this is all there is: and all this could be anything. But here I know it as: I learn to let our love be full and not to strangle it. I learn to let you be full and then empty as needed. I learn to fill and empty and not always to be bursting and displaying my veins as pores. I learn to taste myself, and to gargle in the colors of your tears. we have rhythm together, our songs are already made. Will you write me a song? Or is it that all songs vibrate with importance for us, as they have for you already, and so now it is not that I write for you or you for me or that I am beautiful for you or you for me or that I make or create for you or you for me but that all of it contains the us which exceeds. Whatever this may be: I know it will be the future, forever. I cannot stop, not that I have tried, but my behavior in instants, which I see now as being past, was of fear in recoil, or my recoil in the face of fear: my being-not-here, being-not-at-all. What does this mean? Well, if there is one thing I can say I know, beyond our love as truth and not fiction, it is that I can speak of being and will always be being at the same time. Speaking here, or not-speaking. But now, I will continue the knowledge and development of silence. We share speech and silence. I always endeavor to continue our mutual space, our shared futures, our shared moments. The cave ore struck, oily resins bubbling from the deepest wells, the volcanic crumble and tremble and a starburst, a star does not die, its death is symbolic. Its life is symbolic, but strip the symbol and: the star remains, the life remains. Life remains, stripped of symbol, the most valuable. Your life is valuable to all ends. I have no more words.