Like a faun that plays between the wild forests and the labyrinth. Though, not in sorrow, nor in joy, but in rhythm. The faun can always hear the sweet melodies in the distance that run deeper than through those tall ears. This faun has not forsaken the dirt and the leaves, and the smell of the rain has not deserted him. He is not lost, and is never too far and astray. This place the faun lays between the earth and all else. . . .lifting a little under both the pebble and the petal; and yet still finding his sun and moon. Running fingers along currents, sensing the subtleties of things.

It is my path to traverse. Mines is not a path pursuant of supreme transcendence. It is foreplay, of being on the cusp. It is a delicate state of being. Once dithering between wildfields and vast prairies, now finding myself here at peace in a place between spaces, and this peace I have gained is balance and restores me when I need filling. It is solace. It is delightful gluttony, subsisting on the great fig.