The fog here would never clear. This is an interminable sequence of blinding moments. What is visible is the lack of visibility, seeing which we calm and content ourselves. A chill running down the spine. A heartbeat too carelessly lost in time. It is in a moment, in its energy, and not just its scent or sight or touch or sound, that love resounds beyond rationale or logic. A nakedness of souls, all barriers destroyed in the light of ignorance of their meaningless pasts. Not knowing any thing about any one is the only manner in which you can really know them. And in that moment, the fog ceases to exist because our mind’s eye has turned inwards. And turning inwards it sees with a sparkling clarity that love of ours which we would normally try to find outside.

Can we bend this fabric of tears, the web of its dryness encapsulating the wisdom of all ages?