Pondering shades of gray today, wondering not what life
means, but what it essentially is, mapping fissures along
a path of dry wizened ground.

Sitting, then, by the pond with summer's birds, left behind
with powerful anthropomorphic beings–usually seen as the
primary creators–with whom humans can interact to their
own benefit. The upper world may also include astronomical
personages such as the tall spines of reeds, from which a
squirrel emerges, quickly scans the land, scurries away.

Yesterday, I stood by "a great work," an old man named
Paul Cezanne set out to paint on a cloudy day, recalling
the flaws he had endured to fill in.