I walked through the golden park after a dip in the dark over a day, and I felt that steep incline in the contour of my life as I went, home-bound, though it was not my home (so they say). The colours struck me as the voice does; I was wholly on the earth and amongst it, yet I did not know if I was there at all. real at all. do you see at all? I struggle to burst my self-piteous bubble, to tap the dome and let the glass crack upon my head. I'm blinded by the gold and red yet still I see the black on my periphery, that shadowy hound of his-- why won't you let this be?
/The warm air brought drops of memories into my eyes, reminded me of the times I felt like I was supposed to be, I needn't ask permission, seek verification, want approval. The warmth of autumn encompassed us and I fought my hand to still, my eyes to look up about and watch to see. I stilled that technological pulse - or, at best, kept it at bay so I could appreciate this place and her wondrous way - and let my legs make their step with the scene, no rush, not really a hush: there were shouts and barks and whispers in the flaming trees. I'm home (so they say) and sleep has never been so fully welcomed at this fine thirty-six-past-the-hour. The burden relieved from my shoulder, now resting on the floor, I slump to slumber and pray I wake with a new sense of power - one ever humbler.