Light.

In this moment of generosity, give me this opportunity to share this knowledge with you:
Imagine a morning and a morning that never existed except for in my experience.
Imagine me in the image, tied into a morning that you create. Nothing there but me and your imagination.
Let me then remind you that light is. This is what morning is. Turn your imagination into light. Turn your imagination into morning.
So there was: first me, then your imagination, then imagined me, then imagined light. Each the genesis for the other.
The imagined light hits my imagined face and crosses over onto my real face, the face that you are trying to touch with your imagination.

What games we are playing!

Your imagination is suppressing the receding chill and the moistness under the soles of my feet that were mine. The sense that was only sensed by me with no one else in the world to sense along with me. But that's not a matter for anyone's imagination. In a silent way, a revolution rumbling, a battle for true sense. Can an imagined image resist, overthrow without a sound?
The song on the radio which was meant for me, your imagination gives it to me, as I play it in my head the way I was meant to hear it.
A voice that was mine, dispersing out, generous: a voice that is everywhere, belonging to others, stretching out beyond anyone's imagination.
A curve in the road, bending sound, making shadow, challenging memory. We can only see ships' lights drifting past the bay in the dark. But we keep seeing them, again and again.

Smoke on the hills. Imagination can't compete against memory that is dying but wants to live.
Night comes back, the moistness in the grass pulling down at us.