There is a slow burn to holy. The headwaters of holy froth and burble and fizz and speak scandalously in serpent’s alabaster tongues. Do not mistake symbols for metaphors. Do not mistake doors for exits. Your dreams need not possess the alleged notions of rhyme and reason … they possess the lore of magnetism. Lore is law. When it comes to the nature of myth, reality of metaphor, the songlife in all things moving. Lore is law.
The eyeless angels walked upon the earth once upon a time. Once upon a time is now, always. Now-always the eyeless angels gave us light, storied the code of light directly into our palms, an engraved tablature of light and all its historyless contained in the palms of our hands.
Yes, the secret to life is in the palms of your hands. Yours.
The eyeless angels are equivalent to source citation.
How to find the language that speaks beyond? That truly translates the inner, the essence? Ah, the challenges of quest. Some say the foolhardy challenges of quest. I say the foolhearty challenges of quest. Foolhearty.
It takes a certain kind of foolhearty to undertake the trials of quest, don’t you think?
Light, historyless, exists in the palms of your hands, yours…
Can’t you see? Feel? The eyeless angels rejoice and cry in unison … beneath the veneer, the liquid voices of visions, of placeless altars, the merciful meek with their rightly tuned ears … to listen, broken open to listen, broken open to see … to see what the eyeless angels … you are the eyes of the eyeless angels, can’t you see?
You have always been the eyes of the eyeless angels.
The secret to life, which is not secret all, it is hidden in plain sight, in the palms of your hands … historyless, light, in the palms of your hands … you, now-always, are the eyes of the eyeless angels, you are the force of all things moving, you the phenomenal intermediary between dust and starstuff, you…