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Brass Tax

Life is so long, so much of it spent withholding, restrained for my true will.

Broiling, spattering, an endless stream of shearing water into oil.  As you would have me, I suppose.

What if the only words or music you could take with you were the ones you could remember?  What can you remember?  

Sentences and sentiments flash along through my mind – as I work on one task, I'm reminded of a slew of other things I need to get done.  Noise.  I build things from bottom to top, which calls for momentary sacrifices in focus and quality.

Meditations and enumerating rituals help us resolve towards consistency and conscientiousness.  A day for every meaning, anchoring us in the pasteurized sea.

The numbers are stained, the word inflected.  I can't leave me.

Have you ever dreamed to go to a quiet place?  A small shop, where you can hear the shopkeeper's leather shoes pitter-patter on the carpet from the front of the store, a careful arrangement, lightly lifting and inspecting various collectibles.  A truly quiet place, where no one else is there.

This is all I dream for, now.  I pray for the undoing of this frail, material condition; the space to be free.  Our hope is what will lead us to truth.

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