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All the little ways of justifying we've come to commit to memory as necessary purpose, the ways things move here and now and perhaps have always, there was a time before when these patterns were being created, why did that age stop. The age of absolute creation. I am warmed by the remembrance of a cave, within it the flame darting with loving lustful eyes in the dark the two were loving were playing and held and wrought by a fit of momentary expression was the flame struck up by man now held, now witness to the loving in the dark And there I am we all are walking ever deeper, wearing nothing, bare, we walk deeper the temperature colder and colder though we in the amorous warmth within and held go deeper so joyful, the love making only growing with this depth, deeper and deeper more and more joyful that primal joy that ancient joy. Iwe now make sound with our throat and move it about, in other words without words we create direction, with the compass of our throats we invent direction, we make a song, and nothing is crude now, there is no such thing, this is a timeless moment and that is why it is so important, remember? There was no such thing as permission, it all was, that we were a glorious something where there wasn't nothing, was so thrilling and reason enough, for there was no reason, now deeper , the song we sing growing stronger influenced by something greater and ourselves, then suddenly it is cast, this song, and though we stop our sound it continues, and we remember that the cave did open up in this moment, and only could we tell by our sound, and so were able to then render the world larger in that moment, a song became our sense our reassurance our permission our warning to an instantly bigger world. The flame falters, and so does our song, guided in some way by this previous expression of permission, the making of the flame, we remember that we are still responsive, and that we do not know until it has come to pass, but part of us, now willing, considers there is end to every flame, wrought by man, and that we have to witnessed an end to inner man to man, wrought by man, that everything we create does end, including ourselves, and fixated we become on the lasting of that note in the wider cavern after we had stopped making our sound, what was that, why now hold fear, that we might have moments cast into and by space, that we might put some energy into a space some bigger space and that gesture may continue on, that energy might continue to power, to swim, to live, so we create. The rocks beneath our feet turn to wet sand and cake our feet. They were here before we think and would be after, our bodies remain after, that is the song of the voice of our loins, the expression the decay, should we box them then? Or submit them to a larger space to decay there and slower, an expression remained, remains, to the earth and rocks in caves might turn. We took then, in an effort to better feel the rocks upon the floor in hand, and we take it to the flame to better see it is blood red, we squeeze it with our hand and see it melt, it cake in the same way as upon our feet, and see it stains the body, the body might remain, after whatever in us now does leave, we might sing a song then through this color applied, change the way our voices did when we found direction, might make some direction in this way, so we rubbed some lines tracing our bones upon our flesh, and soon to be a rock, we move our hand and trace the bones of the cave beside us. What song might we sing. This song does not move in the same way, we might have it remain much longer, a much slower decay, for it is of the body, anchored in the substance of this cave and of these bones.