Every so often something shatters like ice and we are in the river of our existence. We are aware.
Ravens are the birds I’ll miss most when I die. If only the darkness into which we must look were composed of the black light of their limber intelligence. If only we did not have to die at all. Instead, become ravens.
The greatest wisdom doesn’t know itself. The richest plan is not to have one.
So what is wild? What is wilderness? What are dreams but an internal wilderness and what is desire but a wildness of the soul?
Each life is one short word slowly uttered.