Our lot is a sorry one also blessed. None of us object. Out here we feast on slimming heaps of gratitude. No one is greedy. No one complains. We no longer expect answers from the answerless even though we keep asking our voices parroting empty exercise. Like practicing scales in a small mirrorless bathroom. With no alibis forthcoming. Daily savvy is our moveable manger. We merge as best we can. A sorry lot but yes blessed. Texts to be read aloud inside your head. This the music the proof of lasting born. From the volumes of echoes cycling we heard it said If music be the proof of love then play on. We can’t discern the source of that voice saying what was said. The volumes of echoes comprised of many voices with no citations no references no footnotes no anything to dissimulate one voice from another from the next. None of the voices attached to name. The volume of echoes being a catalog a compendium of anonymous voices forever auditioning. But to go back to what we heard said If music be the proof of love then play on. We decided this was us from what we were made. The gist of our essence raveled in this core phrase. We have become a hymnal species kissing our motherless want on the lips.
Artwork by Cris Qualiana