A big empty room in a big empty house, walls white and floors clean and shiny. In the distance far beyond the trees there is traffic and the noise of a small town but it's easy to shut it out, easy to concentrate, easy to drift away. Somewhere else.
And there is time, time to practice, time to remember, to try things out and start over. Round here the time crawls, knows its place in the great order of creation and a hovering spirit of serendipity is in the air, brooding, a little beyond reach and questions. There is traction.
The other isn't heaven because heaven is about people, creatures creating gods and guilt and not the inner, hidden things; they pay no heed to them. Heaven is an outer realm built by persistence and determination, where necessary performances are celebrated as they occur and pass on- but this is not for me. My dream is out there beyond heaven, rising in the long curve that separates the eternal, the practical, the ideal and the imaginary. A dream and a curse forever.