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A Grand Unnameable inaudibly speaks from endless here, else could speak we not nor be. Feathers, we, on a deep bird unseen between two night skies, flying because feathers can. Listening are we, with our universe held to one ear, to keeps-playing scuffles between Isn't and Is, boisterous in their muffled playroom. To dance is the rule in our This-That school excepting that sleep too is a rule and quite more deep. End of the world? Peace after that? Perhaps--but from within the Night of All Nights some eventually tickled divine sleeper may dreamingly laugh aloud, stirring breathing into the mist-- and back soon will be we, guns, and daily newspapers. Call this if you wish "The Little Laugh Theory" although nameable is the Is no more than is the Isn't, down, down in the Tao. |
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Copyright © 1995-2004 by Alan Harris. All rights reserved.