I ask unto the creator, "O what shall you have me become?"
The answer arises, "Only all that you are."
I ask unto the creator, "O what shall you have me do?"
The answer arises, "All things within my boundlessness are confusion."
I ask unto the creator, "My Lord, shall I dwell with you?"
There is nothing.
"There is not perfection without me"
trickles the stream, lengthening, bowing, tensile, deconstrued, pluckable, affirming, resonance within a listener before listening's will becomes the willful reborn of it's own unknown unknowable, a shaded imp prick swolen and sweating and beaming as wide as devotion herself if she did when she could be eased into this learnable way but apart from the learned, we know that our heavenly bodies are singing but why all this ringing, or oh, is that the song?