For when the gu zheng rings a holy sound...

The state of this space rings with content. Rain falls light and clangy. Jasmine invading the apricot tree, symbiotic and welcome in the winds of this season. Days later, only a moment has passed. To look out, the sky as dark; the wind as howling; the black striped yellow streets wet. For a small time only, the sounds make no difference. They sound like sleep-preparations. They sound like timelessness, every night pretending itself the same as each come before, each following after. Innocent like silky curtains, fluttering in the wintry glow of a companion. Almost quite forgotten; the float of anticipation, not promising tomorrow.

Faretheewell folks,
-Talthea (2/15/09)

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