the milky way, jennifer moxley
You were alone when through the time-punctured present an inkling of reason found you, this illogical indefensible insight momentarily tore the teleology of hope away from the future tense, celestial intelligence of the embodied now, or the sense that you are held in place by two connected minds.
Despite belief-comfort you are pricked by limits—social, material, psychic. All that you know but cannot explain goes directly into the woodwork, while the plastics like planets refract emanations and thus can neither age nor help you.
Is this the reason old houses comfort you? Their sleep allows for mysterious things—filmy journeys over ethereal banks, star-by-star stone-stepping, beneath your feet soft waters of nothingness and centuries of hidden thought—events that work your defeatist will into a strange elation.
