Dishevelled orbitals unchain light. Nuclei wombs deliver radiance and luminous children, that en masse flow and caress green gardens in grace to awaken cycles of life and create perceptions in space. Images, inane and transcendent. Apparitions that saturate all places. And they meet, establish relationships, and make love.

The hidden caresses of condensed light in this universe mirage, are processed, capturing life in carbon ash, in impossible dreams that all the time clash, as they define and delineate the magic of being here and there. They are uniquely conformed in nothingness, in a space-time CinemaScope, projected out of a single singularity quest, for the pleasure of unfolding its potential to experience love at its fullest.

Maybe this is all another creation model, a myth, concerning the improbable probability that we can of proving the possibility, that all of this universe and life, is but a dream, narrated and sung amid the confusion of none. Just a story of stories being told, as we unfold in this passing and spill in light and music and poetry, while bouncing in the agony of not knowing.

We all do hold fast to the ephemeral, as if it were essence. And tied, as we are, to these dancing spaces, we count the energy steps as nights and days. We suspect and propose and intuit that we are in constant expansion, having departed from an unknown timeless moment, in which we decided to dream in order to awake, and we exploded in light, and drifted away. Always earching the unexplained, within and without nothing and everything.

In perpetual motion we dance a seven veils dance, seeking eyes to see, arms to embrace, lips to kiss, us. Developing consciousness, to imagine imagination and tell ourselves stories never told, that take us to the end of history, where in a point of glory the stories end in wakeful light.

Until then, atoms will dance kinetically, along with their constituent particles, galaxies will ecstatically expand, and molecules and planets will keep rhythm with continents, winds, oceans, and hearts. The Stillness that is, will inevitably and eternally twist, expand, stretch, contract and spill as it contemplates itself in a multitude of echoes of its silent song.

Violent sometimes, paused at others, the many echoes make unique new paths. They are born in imagination, they congregate, they adorn themselves, they approach, they make love. Through many lives and forms they look, devour, burn, in flesh and bone they concert and consort, walk and think and collide. They reject and mock, and love each other, till they become desperate.

Finally, they sit by the shores of change, and in awe, in tenderness, they dawn and dive into their own serene waters of One, beyond imagination, and smile and forgive themselves, as their entrails of nothing and the infinite kinetics of the mirage that animates and transforms everything, ever since that first whim of becoming aware manifested, dissolves in itself and returns to timelessness.

When curiosity exploded, to know what was knowing. When love rushed out into many to find itself as One Love.