A Freckled Veil

In my journeys I have seen a freckled veil.

I was a desert wanderer with no way, and my psyche was shredded by thirst. This, dear reader, all should know: the parched that quench too quickly die. Their organs burst, the tissues of their mind are ravaged, and they are left like corpses prepared for embalming. Everything takes time, and time is what runs. The search drove me into that desert, and the search proceeding could have driven me to madness.

The night sky is a familiar thing, I remind you. It is the play curtain of a thousand different swarms. It is the sea of moon-ghosts and tired, circling comets. It is the thing which cones into the world at the poles, where streams of color dance with confusion as they are tempted by seductive energies.

I once tried to count the freckles of the night sky, and like the wry sprites that they were, they skipped out of the pin of my gaze whenever I meant to point them out. It was as if they were afraid I knew their names already, and by speaking them, they would whisper a chorus against their will in my honor -- the honor of their subjugator. I stopped and for once could fathom a beautiful thing: the web they made.

Seeking out the web, I would follow one star to its sister, to its sister, and on to the next. I could perceive a network vast, and all their chatter was in my head as I daydreamed what their nightly prayers were. They could ask for brutal heat or soft blue calm. When I tried to put a number on their love, I failed, for there between them were distances ever changing and bending; the vectors of their motion too complex for any prose, all rotating and swirling and twisting. At times it felt as if I were falling with all the pinpoints of light getting closer and further, and I could feel my essence stretching behind. Layers of consciousness caught up like miniature tidal waves swallowing old ruins, column by column, until all was colorful coral and muffled praises.

Blackness, madness, mobiles made of galactic synergies, teal auras, molecular cogs, a glass hemisphere, a charming song of love and its penned lyrics, perverted games, and the races sentient minds conceive, are the lot of them the makings of a chaotic engine.

Particles, particles, particles. Ascend, descend, stay put. From every vantage point, there is always another crow's nest to crest and always another thing smaller to magnify. Particles are at all thresholds.