altocumulus

every moment is a point of departure. even some birds can fly at night.

i am content to patrol the vacumn; awaiting the whooshing sound of the Next Big Thing, the small trickle of Something Different, the hammering of What Must Change. i am summoning a Perfect Noun. something to strive towards.

and yet this gentle ambiguity. this language of grey scale. this weightlessness. these paddocks without fences and nights without counting of sheep.

could there ever be a word big enough to encapsulate all of my dreams?

i know less of myself but more deeply. these days i covet small mementos and seeds. ambition seems cumbersome. time plays origami; folding into a migrating bird.

every moment is a point of departure.
we are in transit almost
all all of the time.