Blessed greeting. I deploy a tremendous thanking towards you for providing me with the requested information. Allow the Long River to symbolize our distance; I pen S.S. THANKS on three hundred paper dinghies and set them loose to meet you on the shore. We are winding a trust web between us. I could love you such as a dog loves an Opening Door.
News for you: the river bird had flown to me in a nap-state this afternoon and perched his toes upon my bed corner. He showed his face to the ceiling and opened his beak. He addressed the United States of America. In his Speech he condemned Poverty. Hate, as well. A delicate orator- the intonation of a rare metal artifact shining in the sun. As he pulled in the breath with which to deliver his third condemnation, Monica phoned to worry about my mental state. I told her Not now, Monica and hung up the phone. The bird was nowhere in my sightline.
Friends, I am so hungry for Third Truth as you are. I made flat my body and placed it beneath the bed. I tore the drapings from their hooks. In the flat of my body, I crawled to the kitchen and installed both hands in the bread basket. No bird. Suffering a mild fury, I produced the sound Monica while I removed the power cord from my telephone and undressed myself for a shower.
As I polished my shoulders, the bird appeared atop the curtain rod. I positioned my hands over my sensitive places. He let down the lid on one of his eyes. I winked in return but with both eyes accidentally and when the eyes resumed their unshut position the bird was gone. A signal as clear as glass ornaments, Friends! Does it own your attention?
Together we step towards the Genuine life. The care I hold for you is as long as a dark cavern and so I gift you guidance for the placement of your next step: unplug your telephones!
I hope you have not forgotten my tone; it has been several weeks. With regret, I announce the bird remains absent. Each day I establish the conditions of circumstance in which he has already made himself visible. My shoulders are raw from the polishing.
Just today, I had been walking out steam on the path beside the Long River. I arrived at a park bench. My legs then begging for rest; I sat. I discarded an apple core in the direction of a bush. A fly-swarm collected on the apple core; my very own causation! An occupation with the swarm and the noise of moving water made me vulnerable to imaginings such as this: a brown canoe. I am alone in a brown canoe holding a fishing rod. After 2 unmoving hours, I stand up in the boat and rock it for a little adventure. I think: the gods in me do not smile today. I pick one god & bleed it for answers. Pinching its holy neck, I place it on the hook at the end of my line. I catch a fish and let it go.
Aren’t we charmed? The imagination gifting us matchsticks in the darkness.