There in the sky’s cathedral, in the white painted aspens, where the land is still untouched; is a place where I can go to get away from the ignorance of the world. In this space is the space in which I tick. This miraculous landscape is alien to its own existence. It’s unlike anywhere else. Like the song of the hidden valley, where no one ever goes. I sit beneath a living tree, below the foot of a large sleeping hill. Now from this place, the Earth Mother speaks to me in dreams. In the sun soaked clouds, those dreams of old, speak to me. Hiding themselves as when I hide myself in prospective touch. All the materials of life are burning like a steady day inside me. Behold, in the extremity, I was threshed away into this still silence. And there, I thought of far more intelligent things. And my might, gazed at reality, giving me its music. I stared into my own existence, as a person would stare at his own reflection in the water. What a rich time it is, feeling nothing but the corners of God’s imagination.