Setting toward a distant sun in the gardened evening air, I pull the clouds of pseudillusion across the domain refrain and let the call of the next moment be the way you guide my hand from the bottom of your ever held (if you let go I am gone) eyecepticular facilities leading us both across time, space and the written words you read to me. Within the realm of various sensory input facilitators engaged to my awareness, I maintain cognizant perspective within the periphery of conditionally relegated actualization interpreters heeding the call of the first and foremost thing on my mind: I have a pizza in the freezer. Feasting on the very idea of communicating my evening’s aspectual endeavors gives host to a variety of potential directions to face, but the one we see is in the reflection off the window view setting toward the garden of dreams gone by. Such a lush, green and active vista, with evening’s busy motion as the day transitions down in the edge of sunset touching a quiet pond, where you (yourself as we look through the glass of time) somehow stand in wonder by the light filtered through leafy trees until but a single shaft pillars your silhouette, to hold my keyboard attentions long enough to capture it for the viewing pleasure of your current leisure, herewith.
I write to touch a mind in ways it has not yet been read to, to take this art form of the written word and craft its abilities hithertofore not exercised to familiarity, so that a varied view of the communicated scenery I portray may induce an altered perspective of the act of reading. I take your eyes in mine and lift them to the window reach limit of your own stretch of intent, to focus out at the figure against the edge of comprehensioned evening light and realize that it is your own reflection on the glass between here and there, as seen through wondered eyes from where you stand in the garden of your present moment looking back to when I wrote this. Though they are my eyes to see to write, they are yours to look to read. Reflect upon that.