Abstract

 

It is not what you want it to be, because it is not.

It feels to resemble a childhood, swaddled in dreams and repentance. Thick layers of scents, homey and repulsive, cake like wax pouring from the candelabra held to illuminate imagination. It was, but that does not mean it is. A fine line, having never been defined by those who cross it, can circumscribe the memory of a dream. Those who balance a lucid path know that the sunrise is another’s sunset.

 

M K