is it really june, already? the dawn has waltzed wildly before my eyes. rapt by the new moon's retreat and the starry dissolve--how they lingered and vanished like delicate melting droplets of salt drenched tears. there is always something shimmering in the shadows. it's our reason for gazing so long. we seek it ceaselessly, like lost moths. daunted with vulnerability. flight into the abyss is easy. it's when the light starts rematerializing that we lose ourselves. petrified of the leaks and what they may illuminate. there is always that moment when just enough trickles and transforms all into a mass sheet of gray anonymity. it festers in a frenzy, that dull disarray. muddled minds heaped into hysterical states of hallucination. then the vital streak of deep crimson strikes. or blue. or gold. or fuchsia. vast across the atmosphere, as though it were a canvas rothko had stroked himself. there is such mesmeric absorption in the exhibition of a horizon's birth. only now the cyclic waiting commences for it's certain cosmic demise.