In the dark I tell myself stories cycling through different guises different spells and guesses to sublimate an existential itch I cannot scratch. In batches the words arrive wingless like immigrants from distant shores. I go there hungover from daily bread to kiss them to issue intimate welcomes. The words gather to form a title aligning a cause Homecoming for Exiles. In the shadows of the words growing nearer to me I suddenly realize I am speechless. I don’t know what or how to say. A silence soul killing not golden. A fuzzy glowing one presently unformed that one day may grow up to become wisteria or adagio flickers and softly lisps Chill the fuck out. I bow down before this wise word this buddha fleabite of lyrical say so. The words a harem of fireflies each light an ember christlike in its fault and burn. In the dark in sync with tiniest flares I tell myself stories carried along by tides and furies of telling to only god knows where or why this longing.
Artwork by Cy Twombly