Traffic
——It’s as if you were waiting for spectral nature to interrupt your thoughts. Though really, we are totally refined, and nothing touches us in general. We glide through, and later reflect on how it might have been done; and that is experience. But we don’t set foot from the center of our being, as we arrived there some time ago, like on the brow of a ship, or stopped at a traffic light. I have but a few storylines. It’s only as if I am pretending–to wait for nature to participate in my thoughts. My thoughts having rallied and congregated in a place very safe from any harm. Free nature, you know, is fear, unrealized. What! I ask right here, what can slide by the barrier and infiltrate the domain that thought has cordoned off, as if by inheritance of sacred territory that never, yet, borders on the world of physical reality? I know no devil capable of upsetting this self-confidence, as I write. And would this create a drama in a single day, tying everything together? Who wants that? It shall it be leisurely days of slumbering ambitions, and hackneyed dreams, and crazy ideas forgotten almost as suddenly as they appear.
