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matins.

Can we slow down? I awaken before morning with a faint title suspended– A Users Guide to the Sublime— and the idle desire to manufacture a manual for the artful navigation of non-ordinary space. But it is all symbol and all metaphor and I am wary of the human tendency to literalize; to reify; to take the language of anything of as sacrosanct. Better remove, better undo, better refine.

We are not eternal but the animating forces that move us are. The thrill in opening to them; in soaring like a sailbird along various and unseen planes; in the breathtaking brevity of life in this form.

Shower. Downstairs. Outside. Turning on the grill in the still-dark morning, the background dusted with ash from the wildfires, the magic of propane and the sudden rush of flame. The sear of meat and the sharpness of black coffee, breath hanging in dragon-clouds and mixing with the steam. I continue to love the mornings here, cold and peopled only with the lingering figures of dreams, breathing on my hands until the red beacon of the sun starts to crawl slowly upward through the smoke-hazed dawn.

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