Because I can

"The sun is half the world, half everything, the bodiless half. There is always this bodiless half, this illumination, this elevation, this future, or, say, the late going colors of that past, effete green, the woman in black cashmere. If, then, New Haven is half sun, what remains, at evening, after dark, is the other half, lighted by space, big over those that sleep, as of a lone, inevitable sound, a kind of cozening and coaxing sound, and like the goodness of lying in a maternal sound, unfretted by day's separate, several selves, being part of everything come together as one." (Wallace Stevens)

More words.... We even sneeze them, you know: ahhh choo. "Ahh" who? "Choo" . . . chew. "Ah[,] choo[-choo].." Words upon words, skin upon skin, sand upon sand -- layer upon layer, all the way down. My, we're getting thick already -- or maybe it's just me. Maybe both. May[it]be neither.

Not surprisingly, I'm more enchanted by the night than I am the day. The day seems so promising and alive, and yet I find the prospects of either wanting. The night, however, is demure. She slinks onto the stage with grace, slowly, until she finally owns it. She holds no promises -- in fact, she rarely speaks. She speaks so seldom, she hardly seems alive. And yet, when she does sleep, truth and lie do not matter nearly as much as hearing her voice. She speaks softly, like a lullabye. And when she sings, she sings in a hush. And when she sings, we all become one without a face, hushed and hidden.

Oh, what am I talking about now? What am I saying? Down what path am I treading with these romanticised, idealised thoughts? More to the point, though, why are these paths I set you on only well-worn by previous exits - was it an exodus or exile? Are we, pray tell, headed to Egypt or Eden? Maybe a breather from this mysterious course is necessary.