There is light all around. Its found in places untamed. There's even a piece of it in the concrete creations of F stops, Neptune Avenue's, traffic lights.
So what's this then? Of darkness enshrouding an impenetrable reality - one of stars falling and beams flying into untold places of walnut flooring, once a walnut tree breathing in themselves the timeless depths of perception.
Flying again, she breaths in the misty vapors of the Atlantic ocean, sunrise. Beaming blackbirds flying. There they greet the pastels taking over the muted ocean color of pre-dawn's artistry.
Its the essence of survival resting on top of this consciousness. Time, that is. Moving.