When the vessel has died and gone, where is mind has it conquered over this organ or is mind somewhere else beyond seen boundary. Is it mixed or returned, solitary, vulnerable, shaped, by good or evil. Upon a mountain exposed is the skull of a philosopher, the howling wind blows through sockets like the thousands of sheep that died by his side. Did they join his flock or are they indeed just remnants of the dead, all that seems to be left is a lock of hair, for mortal man was indeed made of flesh and even to this day destination fucked will be upon us like a hurtling express train.
Breathing Constant Creation
Breathing constant creation, taking and giving, where panic and sense of mortality meet, who do we think we are, an element of something shared for a time with others, a teasing glimpse of enlightenment and fleeting entitlement. Like the bee taking nectar from flower heads, as changing to the power of honey sweet and temporarily consuming the cosmic breath of time.