When the Book Of Life writes itself within me, I can hear the invitation.
The words in letters of light that appear in my mind are no different.
When the words appear thus, I hear the invitation.
Reading, when I see them, inwardly, awaiting,
Writing, then, to read them again.
When these words of light are thus sprinkled on the screen of my eyelids,
diffused across the veil of my chest.
It is not the same, not from the same plane, as when they come out as the pressed substance of brain, and tediously drop, all soaked in the salt of the egoic sea.
Telling apart.
