the lost man chronicles
book two: the art of love
a necessary respite from slumber
I was rolling restlessly in bed. I was yearning,
and I wanted to talk with the Woman with no name.
I could not blame anyone but my self for this anxious pine to converse with the divine source Herself.
Thus, at 2:30 I arose to compose this whet letter at the table, unable to sleep because of this aching need to write to my muse.
In utter silence I am writing almost confused as to why I am here, for I am not aware of the next word until it is written. It is almost as if the pen itself is smitten with Her and I am but the conduit, the medium, the transmission, and the receiving funnel through which Her energy travels to twitch and move my fingers with lithe force.
My shoulders are a little tense now, going through this ethereal channeling exercise, but my eyes feel tired again, and I do believe that I will lay back down to rest quietly, cleansed of the creative anxiety that had piqued this epistolary longing and necessary respite from slumber.
the art of living the art of love