Imagine making soul bells that knell when a songbird dies. A chorus, a cacophony, an avalanche that draws us to, drowns us in threshold sound. How long could it be endured? We know now how to collect death to study life. But can we collect and release the sound of life's graduation, its course fulfillment?
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I've heard your distant thrush decrescendi, sweetly marking dawn with song. Why did I not then hear your cries for help, four meters from my door?
"...Occasions of hatred are never settled by hatred. They are settled by freedom from hatred."Dhammapada 1.5
A third teen was seen by the side of the road hitchhiking,
fleeing her family's financial blues.
While she stood there, wrestling with sadness, a very rich demon offered her a ride.
He then tracked her back to her parents, whom he called,
asking to date their underage daughter.
Her mother wasn't buying it.
"Over our dead bodies."
Slamming down the phone, mother and daughter were alone. Daughter running to her breast,
this mother gave her teen a nest,
even as everything around her seemed to be falling apart.
Imagine three - mother, pedophile, me.
There is likely to be thousands
of such trinities.
Imagine a darkened room,
where every third teen faces a self-portrait with an animal predator superimposed.
Mothers barge in.
With their daughters, they rip the images to shreds.
Thread them on strings.
Use them to decorate things, like shrines.
Water, ground drawn, may have bubbles resembling froth, spume, effervescence. Such bubbles, when pumped up from bedrock, may be dissolved gasses - carbon dioxide, hydrogen sulfide, radon, methane. Imagine small wells watched and filmed worldwide, accompanied by the sound of the place, the sound of the well. A palimpsest of data, but infrequent. A howl, a hoot, a moo, a crow. The pump of the air where once, underneath, hidden, wet stone, alone.