Love, love is free and it exists, magic and love, art and science, everything is alive, the drug is not artificial, the slowly sitting emperor penguin is no less distinguished because he remains in the grip of hormonal control, scream it, scream it now, creation is not for therapy or those who would require it, art isn’t a still-life photograph by some plump lonely shrew, art is alive, poetry is tangible. (look here how he is squeezing my chest sometimes too tight, in a bear hug, lifting me off the ground sometimes, laughing into the night and how could you say he is dead when he is here now holding my hand so tenderly?!!). All these dreams on a listless January night are as real as the gear in my head and the light in my hand and the cold on my feet and the sand on that beach. and the clock on the wall and the whir of the fan and the clack of the keys are a symphony of loneliness in a Siberian wood as children running from the wolves. I want to sleep now and awake again in the time when the worlds forces would once again gather and magic will spread from the fingertips of the poet to the painter, prophet and dancer, to face the darkness, because it is beautiful and cold, and huddled together we will be warm and see our true selves as we had always hoped they would be. SOMETIMES.

And when the grand magic wanes and we fall into the pit what visions of hell we will emerge with, victorious spoils from our long and arduous journey home to our wives: the world.