There is no after . . .

And just like that it was the second movement of Sergei’s number 2. I heard it as the larger-than-life half-moon sank toward the west, and I watched as the earth slowly turned causing the moon to fall into the river. This river is so deep, so deep that all my thoughts also turned, one by one by one into another . . .

How is it that my days are long but the nights seems longer?

Here are some gifts from this day, a kind of pictures at an exhibition:

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Before Shade. Empty.
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During Shade. Full.
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Tethered.
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I’m not counting hours. Only moments.
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A beauty unspeakable.
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Weathered, not worn. Alive.
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Every night, through a window.
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Electric.
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There is no after.

Shabbat shalom . . .