In response to Leonard Cohen’s, “The Book of Longing“:

In those hours before I am ready to let go of the ephemeral place and allow the real into my mind.  I am often flooded with amazing words and phrases.  Over the years I’ve learned to let myself enjoy them as far as they will go, since the simple act of reaching for a pen and iPad make them run, unceremoniously, back to that from which they came, leaving only the faint scent of antique books to confuse my morning.

I can’t decide if that world is necessarily better or worse than the one in which I spend my conscious moments.  I know it has a darkness that reaches beyond what I allow myself to feel in the light of day.  But it also has a beauty that I struggle to reproduce.

I wish those words, trapped in that boundless cage, would let me help them to cross over.  But if the truth be told, I ‘m not sure I’d want to be exposed to this moment either if I had a say in the matter.

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