solitude sweet
humming the fan, blades running circles of return
awake, aware, resting curled on the couch
awaiting the news, glancing into there, passing time
the place before my face, flowing flitting little things
vibrating static all mashed together
catching my eye transforming
revealing as if speaking, on the parchment of unmanifest space
writing substance with ink of disuniform time
unfolding dimensionless strings embedded in nothing
thoughtbare the essence of awareness beyond the mind
forming some thought, the strings move
seeing working making, the garden of the mind
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