The lines of a spaceship are also lights that point a way between the limits of our humility, and the infinite form of the cosmos.
I think there is something wise in thinking that the religious figures that make up our creeds were perhaps also astronauts of the spirit who saw beyond this world, and brought us the truth, a truth that smells of a young spirit.
The first night of this eleventh month has a lot of walking, under the sweet smell of wet grass, with whispers on wheels and bicycle horns. There is a lot of materialism and fear in what happens in power and money.
For some reason, I sense that the white apron cults will be hard at work these weeks and that an alien narrative is being constructed. As the world prepares for the moment where the truth out there proclaims that we are not alone.
It is my intuition where the paths of light intersect between aliens and gods, in religion and trials. What will come? What will we dance? I shall believe.
