There’s a song stirring. With no words, or melody, or any sound (that is, at least, perceptible to our ears). But it stirs, nonetheless, in its quiet spirit of restlessness, as it is decidedly there. In undeniable existence. In me. In knots, in rivers, in truth. In a language that transcends all things. And non-things.
It yearns to be realized in full comprehension. To be written. To have all its pipes and parts laid out in chaos and in form, with Tangibility as its shameless aspiration.
