Sometimes we feel we are a turf out from our world and the haunts of men.
Suffering a living death, fated to die in a ditch in some ravine of great loss somewhere, utterly extinct, wretched, inconsequential, forgotten like a flea on a sheep’s back.
We wish for the impossible, to go back to our mother’s womb and float there…
In that small, limitless universe among the stars with no beginning, no end.
Waiting for the new world to begin, we have been there before and we are constantly reborn.
We wish to know and never know to bear to much reality of the world we wish for.