'We are reaching into the silence.
Are we the music, whilst the music plays?
Between the un-being and the being,
sounds a hollow rumbling of wings...
Am I here, or there, or elsewhere?'
(With My apologies to T.S. Eliot)
Friday, 27 November 2009
Something about polka-dots...
seems to go in through the eyes and then whizz around. I can't pin down exactly just why, it jogs something somewhere way back in the long ago.