Going on to 82, a name born of this world. Eyes to witness the harsh realities that score. A guilt-breed of lust and ignorance. Time, it be, he who knows. The time of ancient trees and nothing else. Moved by the slight of hand, the wisp of breeze. A story, he writes, of love and hope, of things that are to be. Cast to sea by hands unknown in the high tide of late life. Withered and gray, he sets forth. To challenge himself, be young again. Alas, he finds peace in the thought of not returning. He puts his soul into a bottle and feeds it to the waves. It is then that his body, raped and fragile, drifts to the ocean floor, and he is reborn unto himself, under a moon which hums serenly..."Let it be".

Sin, he sees upon the touch of his hand. A fierce reflection. Vile subtleties of perception. Ideas, the vehicle to ascension. Golden are the times we call revolution. Sunder the mind from its eye, the verse from its poet, the thought from its thinker. Climb through the summit to the space above where the air is too thin to breathe to those who are unwilling. To see the sun and the moon and the stars as they truly are...the very fabric of space and time. Worlds which wait bearing the knowledge of what we call unknown.

It's lonely up here in the stratosphere.

frank