To my Sublime.

Every door will be cold, until the umbilical cord of memory lights them afire.

What Is will eternally BE.

What has Been, has drenched me like the rain does the parched desert.

It invades every aspect of my being, devouring me as the snake does the fragile egg.

Yet, from that fragility explodes a Phoenix, about which the Zoroastrians were wrong.

It flowers into being, not every 500 years, but with each sunrise over the Atlantic, be it that of the Green Mountain or that of the Palmetto state.

Moreover, it rejoices in its power yet again as Apollo’s chariot descends into the Pacific.

This is a power made manifest in large measure by virtue of what it has found in that Desire with which each burns, and which is a gift indescribable.

You are that gift, and always will be, a gift, offered with such sincerity and so pure of any motive that it any economy.

There is not debt to discharge, only the purity of the giving for which to exult.

The only “aspect” to which we may be understood to owe for this gift is the infinite span of time that allows for the manifestation of the now and the then, for the forever more: the coming of the more, which must Be.

I am infected with what Is; I disdain to seek a cure and would refuse it as I refuse the death of this star.

This star, which has inscribed its undying light onto my flesh, into my marrow, my soul, into everything that I AM and WILL BECOME.

There are no cold doors.

Though behind them there may only be a specter of this present moment; it is a specter with which I will dance upon the opening, one whose eyes fill me with warmth, and one who has imparted this indescribable pleasure to what Is: now and then.

Long live this exquisitely painful hauntology, the being of which infuses not only doors with its warmth, but each day for which I will eternally celebrate these days.

Two become One, become everything that Is.

You Know this.

I Know this.

Entire galaxies of stars, which brighten even the darkest days of the soul, know this!

Celebrate the earth, this moment and that which will come.

Celebrate as I wrap myself in this which I have become, thorough the beauty of You: my dancing star.

Shall I dare insult you by employing the inadequacy of language that would close this carnival to that which cannot be described, in spite of its having been spoken.

Language is, after all, no more than a weak attempt to expound the experience with which I will evermore slake my thirst.

I could not Now be me, if you were not you.

In some sense both “you” and “I” have been subsumed under a “WE” (as I easily imagine the arms of the “W” encircling the “E,” hands meeting together at the middle parallel).

The anticipation of what I Will Become, as your Existence continues to infuse me Is yet another thing of which I cannot speak.

I celebrate what you Are and what you Will Become: today, tomorrow, to infinity’s end!

You are my Sublime!