Every word I type feels spun-dry of intention, of inspiration.
The cats have it right: sleep.
Reports of the Aurora Borealis visible tonight from around these parts, but I'll have to go with imagination only, as we're socked-in up to the eyelids with cloudcloudcloud. The Borealis is on my list of Things To Do in this lifetime, assuming, of course, that this is all we get. But what if we get more? What if this is just the prelude, the preparation? Not one to give in to Christian notions of an everlasting afterlife, this seems, of course, preposterous. But what if something else exists, something that requires a vocabulary, a type of "seeing" that we are as yet unable to comprehend?
Oh, these Friday night ramblings will only get me into trouble. Better to shut this whole thing down and go to bed, let the subconscious do its uncensored ruminations.