the vestige of a web, no strings attached

The door is open wide, open to the world, and through this opening it breathes and draws the cool crisp air into my blood and reminds me I am alive. And I live, and I am without thought, but fully present to the words that pour from my pen in thick black ink, as though they were written before. And me, I trace the outlines of words that do not yet exist, not until I put pen to paper and call them into being, although they have always been and never were.

My eyes flicker in the early morning light as it shines through the Roman pines and cypress trees and everywhere it is a painting, a fresco, al fresco, a scene I have seen but only in two dimensions until I stand as I stand now, standing at the door, and I stand upon a precipice I cannot see as the air caresses my form. And it draws to me as I to it as I shall see what cannot be seen and I shall say what cannot be said.