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Literary performance, essays, and spoken-word confessions from an author known only as Woolfinius Jackson Whürl. A voice from the Dust Meridian, reading the pages he never meant to send.
When ache comes
In the early hours
There is nothing
But to lay and reflect,
Wallow in the madness
And drift into the universe.
Where something whispers
A name in the dawn.
And her presence is invoked,
And she comes and does not.
So I left my flesh behind
and searched the empty places,
sure that I would find the lonely soul—
but she was not to be found.
For she was not alone.
And I traveled beyond the shores
of that little beach
where she watches the sun rise,
where the gulls break
the silence of the night.
And over the vast, deep blue sea,
to and past the Cliffs of Moher,
Where I sit quietly in the Burren.
Where the wildflowers bloom.
And there I discovered
That soul whom I sought.
She, in the tiny miracles
of blue,
yellow,
red,
and periwinkle,
sitting in peace and quiet.
The epitome of love
Of contentment.
indistinguishable in beauty
and delicacy
from those millions
of tiny miracles.
I made love today.
A form of it anyway.
And I learned,
Possibly for the first time,
A heart to a heart is more
Powerful than a body to a body.