xxxix

3 + 5 + 7 + 11 + 13

we are floating in a dangled space washed ashore and wrought to fit.  where are we is what we are.  how to know where shapes our search.   identity shifts along experience towed memory.  that it is said, “WE ARE THIS,” gives comfort, with belief, and otherwise offends.  “we are this”, even when we’re nothing is enough to give us ends.  shadows haunt the density of light circling air within our lungs.  what we are, is our condition, hanging in the nothing like a vision.

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Langston Hughes