I sympathized with someone in the middle of our conversation, who has been insomniac in a sleepless city for nights on row. Tonight, in conversation, he said something in replacement for his dreams: “God must have enough now to change the form of our weapons; in this world, something that is mysteriously exchanged could be made what will never be made clearer. Everything is intricately clear cut and made of glass.”
Many can vilify that our world is not a strong architecture for what we have imagined walking through. Some can be so quiet, and some are as invisible and preciously silent about what they see the world to be. We, however, miss that perhaps it wasn’t humanity that first built our vaults from the loop and out. Our true world is shaped of something unspeakable, somewhere in the corner in the dark, from the streetlights, the roads, and the bones from which we wake, between a empty road and a busy one, we automatically pave in this anachronism, not in these hands hands to our bones, but apart away from a vantage that truly misses the shape of how we feel, when we actually fall before the world into the aether.