Intention all worded down.

Not of the world.

That is the goal. It is the desire. The function.

To be other and outside, in realms of spirit and dreams and in-betweens. The not-here and the not-now. Devoid of politic, embraced in smallness.

The red-rimmed eye sockets of ebon skulls and the patter of the mouses feet in the moment before the Owl, (Event of the) it all belongs and all is one.

Perhaps there is not sensing be made here. Perhaps it is so. So fine!

Yet there is no sense in going out of our way to achieve that end.

Here be poetry and song, here be anger and sadness, here be all the bits of the me that are Uncut and raw, or so is the hope.

Here is to hope, and to what-is. A toast.