3123

The rains subside and the sun warms the air. A respite from the grayness, dampness and storm. Workmen appear now that the climate shifts. They resume their minute modifications to the planet--the removal of weeds, the spreading of dirt and sands, and the readying of the space where bricks will be placed. Tiny tedious adjustments that will ultimately disappear--along with any memories of who was where and what they did.

I awaken from a short nap--a timeout that I called after consuming a sandwich and ubiquitous french fries. I consumed a BLT on rye and a pile of crisp potato strips covered in ketchup. I awaken to a sense of repetition, of endless cycles without variation or intention. I could fall back into that pit of sleep, easily, without any special effort.

It requires, it takes, more effort to remain awake and not fold up and dream again. The place has grown quiet. MD and SD have resumed their stillness. Workmen have finished for the day and left--their tools and markings scattered about the place. Their efforts will resume anon, if fate so decides. Each effort is a gamble, a roll of the cosmic dice, a lottery.

I am feeling pensive. I am tight and tense. There are images hovering around me--scenes I see not clearly, but that appear like floating mists and fogs. Imbalance! Wavering! Endless dreams! All manner of spirit loosed and flickering--like tiny motes in the darkness. Elements of light that reach out, across the distance, to ignite the shadows of the burning now.

What dream is this? What is it I'm supposed to see?