There is only the non-question that begets the non-answer when madness sits down with you for a cup of tea.
There is only non-sense that begets the nonsense when the veil is veiled which is veiled.
Engagement is error; but error is real in the sense of being human.
The real in the sense of being human will engage as the child reaches out and gushes magic awkwardly spilling secrets when the sun can do no harm and night can no longer veil.
How can truth not capture the insecure, beauty not show the incoherent if they are one?
In this place where the norms are a little bit out of whack, where the real is beckoned by silences and where each word is immersed in dark matter nuances occasionally swimming out and whispering the naughts underlying the rock solid figments of our other than day thoughts.
Where the leaf is Buddha, the stem logic, the flower is the overflowing stream, and you catch it all on paper measuring it all in a glass of wine.
Where the crow beckons but only succeeds in making noise.
Where the waves are careful not to wake up the gods who are not listening not in the forest that holds the tree that shows the path to the forest.
Where mothers and sons and daughters and fathers sit around the fire and worship the sun.
Where rightness-es are engendered as consequences of silences which follow words which follow silences.
In the beginning was the silent word.
(Nilaveli, Day 2 by the pool, Sri Lanka; Aug 7, 2013)