A half-finished book is, after all, a half finished love affair.
And all becomes clear. Wish I could make you see this brightness.
Don’t worry, all is well.
All is so perfectly, damnably well.
I understand now, that boundaries between noise and sound are conventions.
All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended.
One may transcend any convention, if only one can first conceive of doing so.
Moments like this, I can feel your heart beating as clearly as I feel my own,
and I know that separation is an illusion.
My life extends far beyond the limitations of me.