s.wordthruheart

[version 1: original] I have many faces in my hand but wear none She switches faces out like night and day a million inside her pocket He has need of the actress' heed a story that must be seen by one face He says, walk down into the secret place I gave my whole life to excavate Illusion for shell with an iron-core truth Church bells ring in a concrete hold upon a rock-past that'd otherwise slip from shore He stands at the shore alone and waits But lurks and looks and peeks through the slivers til somebody sees him and then he knows If he offers his hand, you'd better go; If you meet the witch you have to say no or yes, but you can't ignore (that's a no); Your life will have consequence whether you're ready or not whether you like it or not We can debate forever, you and I Everything in the vanilla sky Up in the daydream of truth, the centerhold is there is no truth Peel back reality, peel back face Treasured ground upon ...

Lost in Love like a glitter station, Dark train come to take me away – a tunnel reached down to oblivion – along walking tracks today, yesterday searching for gold in the glitter searching for glitter in gold, I hum, mining the air for faces and gems I see’r face smiling and leering some, all talking, whining, grinning, lying in the glow of a momentary bullet-train, air sprinkled with magic in a mystical moment – I capture a (re)cord ‘fore it falls below. The darkness of the tunnel, as it returned, along with silence, loneliness, echoed, hello, hello, hello I cry back hello!? and the echo laughs, bye girl . Glitter turns to static and then turns to snow. Is there anyone out there? ( I have a few questions before I can answer ) I’d remember if I could what we all saw just a minute ago, I described it in my record as the pitch black floor giving way to a pale brown lamplit dance hall; no one ...

  Verboten The world is changing very rapidly. We are like dancers. In the dark room we spin; only flashes of color from our flying costume are seen – by whom? There are many kinds of dancers. Some don't even move and are only eyes unblinking in the darkness. It was one such pair of eyes that was watching me, and only me. I watched the eyes and never saw them fixate on another dancer for more than a few seconds. They snapped back onto me, hungrily, patiently, and quietly, not wanting to be seen (for watchers' eyes are large and a dancer's eyes are closed). We change our costumes often now. They are like ribbons in the long night of the world. * The world is full of noise. Everybody's chatter, everybody's life story: spewed out in a continuous, broken stream. An individual rarely makes a stream, being too disjointed; altogether one chaotic, bubbling brook, yet unbroken. A pair of eyes stands outside the noise in a quiet room that seems otherwise inaccess...

 I walked into the fog of a spell avoiding it was impossible for I was born blind (blindness the sin – see at any cost) like all, a fog lain over the land where we dwell: see it too late – it covers itself. when all becomes fog, world becomes bathed in gray we become accustomed to limited spectrums within our conception what breaks our perception? given a cure – then it's taken away or diverts the curse into new dimension: symbols are abstracts; the ocean is mere introspection look inward, into the fog – fog has settled there now you're buried in air! and water but not the waters of life; you come to think you are the cause all misery it stems from within outwardly one bears on arm a tattoo St. Mary the Virgin – she speaks through symbols lift the fog in spirit symbols are living: we, animated frightening for man to be put in his proper place beneath spirits but man is no monkey collection of beating molecules eating and moving toward nothing within...

THE LEDGE Part 1 EXT. CHRISTMAS MARKET A man stands alone in a noisy crowd, his head raised slightly above those around him. He stares flatly ahead, his mouth closed and straight. The wide crowd around him are babbling but he cannot discern any conversation as they cut across each other in a web of noise. The crowd falls out of focus. The ocean of noise gradually becomes muted and his own voice comes forward in clarity. MAN It has been this way for years. I cannot solve my biggest problem. The world doesn't react to my touch. It is as if I am behind the glass. I don't touch anyone and nobody touches me. What happens to me doesn't depend on me. I'm at the mercy of the hand. It is only by its whim that I come into the world to touch something, until just as suddenly it pulls me back, even in the middle of a breath. In my world there may be silence for twenty years and a waterfall for five minutes. In that five minutes a life screams, being born. But then ...