Oh the warmth you could not confiscate that lives within me syllabically. A little film last night we saw at an old-fashioned drive-in movie theater may have been for children, but surely for me, called The Sheep Detectives, headlining even interspecies affection of the purest kind. Hugh Jackman as shepherd caring for a host of named sheep all different from one another and beautiful to him as he seemed to them according to their speaking parts by voices we have come to love. Oh the difference between infatuation and a more comfortable love that blesses what it senses, seeing music in often preposterous sounds. Oh the warmth of kindred tones that keep us from feeling as alone as we surely are, and yet, that hope overtaking the rope trick of depression some prefer to make contagious as they conceive of power as a goal. What I wish for you is a string of unpolished forms of beauty you might choose to assemble into nothing like a creed, but a way to take surprise on an adventurous journey and reside in a mostly different location from any you have known.
Sylvia reads books, the room, the world as we know it, she proclaims the hinges between one factor and another, she
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