Something is happening to me, upstairs.

I don't know how it's going to turn out. My perspectives and motivations are shifting. The Earth has moved. (The opposite of) the murder pill was dissolved in my drink.

There was an earthquake in a dream last night, at an outdoor summer trance party.

It's all been the result of some friends I was with Sunday.

And I remember seeing pink buds on a tree on View street. The guilded trap is sprung. The guilded trap is spring. Out my window, the silver lining is threatening to consume the cloud.

Once more unto the beach, my friends.
Once more unto my friends, the beach.

I'm debating reconnection. There's no fork in the road of solitude. Either you keep going, or you turn back, and everyone who makes the journey fades into invisibility as they go. I suspect, however, that it ends at a the top of a cliff. Either you go over the falls, losing even the self you cherish as the last thing you ever had, or return to the company of others. Somehow I don't think setting up a kissing booth there would bring in much business.

Nirvana is death. The cessation of suffering is not a terminal value; it is instrumental to the cultivation of joy.

Suddenly, I feel uncertain, though, dependent and anxious. In a day, I have gone from God Creator of my universe to a babe in arms. The comfort of the love and acceptance of foreign sovereigns has suddenly glittered and shown like I never remembered, and out-tantalyzed the bedrock of my solitary tower.