Drifting, gently lapping, creaking. Crickets, dark moon, strange light, stars. Gentle and persistent currents, rocking, spinning. It goes unnoticed, shallow at first. But the shore drops away quickly, then shelf, then abyss. Deep things move slowly below, huge and with certainty. Further away from the shore than close now. Land dissolves, a thing of the past, no where, no thing. Drifting between above and below. Horizon becomes irrelevant as vertices assert themselves. Slowing, stopping: sinking.

Sometimes there are dark unseen things. Sometimes there are bright spots. Very much what it is, whatever it is. Sometimes a sense of regality, supreme delicious secrecy, long procession winding next to the banks of a glorious river, making way in sunlight toward the ocean, washed in fat gold bands of long afternoon sun. 

Not the hero's journey. The queen's path.

"Writer child, lingerie model, cowgirl, Buddhist, demon, phenomenologist. Her dreams are full of wolves and doors. Such free exactitude, and then heart-stopping turns. A marvelous book." Ellie Epp

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