We found a little edge of peace in what we had been looking for. We drove in circles, examining, and parting the fringes of unfmailiar territory. I don’t know where any of that will lead to, but it seems to be some kind of tough and binding fabric holding the raw planks of support in place. We etched our own place there, paused to take pictures, and then returned thinking of what could be, should be, or might actually occur in a rawly conceivable timeframe.

It holds, and becomes mystically cryptic in its essence.

I’ve grass. It’s right there behind me, sprouting like a newly seeded lawn, which it could only ever be if someone made the leap from reality to fiction, or from imagined to concrete.

I’ve grass. Though often thought holds that if ever there was a tiny etch of life that should be somewhere grander than on the sill of my working mind, this should be one of those things.

I’ve grass. And trapped in the creamless delight and confines of some sort of mental atrocity, they sprout and being their drab life locked away from a truer calling, deeper and stronger.

One should never assume that there is a grander truth hidden behind a simpler one. It creates doubt, and lurking in the shadows of the city, a meaner and more coniving unreality is holding court to pounce when you stop looking at the fringes of what has absolute meaning, and what could simply be a fragmented trim around a glossy attraction. It requires focus, and too often we find ourselves shifting and loosing perception of a blurless mindscape.

I’ve grass, and the grass is peering out the window. It’s looking for something. Longing, if grass could long.

There is an absolute honesty hidden in the fringes of something I can’t yet see. I want to draw it, paint it, write the words that compose a million billion sihouettes of imagery and shadow that inscribe the series of life surrounding the complexity of its existence in nowhere. I long for something. I long for complexity in the rolling emergent elements of neural cells and quantum mental states. I long for, perhaps in some small way, understanding of something no one has satisfactorily explained. And in that, a grasp from the everyday trend of looking deeper and further into the trailing tails of those comet-like thoughts that bash through a vacuum and paralyze us with wonder. In that there is meticulous understanding of some sort. And perhaps peace. Or perhaps more frustration. Ah, well. It’s all simply grass. Just grass.

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