Originally posted on (mac)ro(mic):
Limestone country, where the quarry growls in heat thunder over the fields: we’re driving to find the place Dad wanted his ashes interred. Tonight Mark and I bring the boys to a cabin so quiet we can hear the electric lines of the high pylons hum through the easement.?…

Boxes sit moldering in the basement: things we thought we needed, in impulsive increments, but never touch now and can’t get rid of. Effigies of missed moments; gargoyles that laugh at lost love. Image: Effigy urn- San Francisco Museum of fine arts

~One can’t speak the things that are told to the mind at night; can’t sing the paths of private melodies that dwell in the antipodes of what is. But, thread you those footsteps, stay to the true, and know what is coming is living in you.~ Art: The Virgin, by Gustav Klimt