Make the small your domain. Your belfry for lost hours. Within the small words gather to tremble to sublimate to keep solitude company. Also they become cinema in which you are watching words gather to keep solitude company that being the plot you being the watched watching. You wait for the words to become the monologue you will speak you listen to it forming on your lips here it comes—Solitude is the circus from which everyone runs. It is also the nexus toward which all is drawn. You look at the mouth moving and can’t say if you agree or disagree with what it has said but no matter what you think how you feel the voice continues—Solitude is near to god. The lost hours are near to nothing. Between the solitude of near to god and lost hours near to nothing there is a place a space in which you can place yourself. Make the small your domain.
The monologue ends. The film reel if there had been any hisses flaps a snake swallowing a baby bird. You notice you are now near to fading and this gets you wondering about god and solitude and lost hours and when the wondering ends what then.
Photo by Man Ray