32. methodology i. how through glass, light of late day, hazed by clouds. warm voices lounge at the near end of saturday. walk me, hand in yours, into the diffuse light laying a path. another world on the other side. i once said, of eternal bliss, "it would get dull." but, this is a day for such fêtes. i can feel calm, i can drink air. longing, without an end. faded by the wash of distance, foothills between us. ii. which guiding us towards the end, the other world extends tendrils, to beckon us. sleepwalking, we tread on shafts of light through a clouded sky, illuminating a jail in the midst of the gray-hued bay. messengers. illuminations on the flat waters, where everything is a quiet walk in the morning park in the midst of a large city. streets sloping towards god, signposts pointing all the way to the afterlife. iii. why past the foothills, i can almost touch your face, lit by the fire of sun on the lake. here, we once held hands. though strangers touch my body, i am still sycamore, brushed in wind, arcing towards the blue above. in spite of glass panes, i hear whispers, your walk stirring dead leaves. i am hollow, i am bursting with dew. inhale my air, forget your skyful of paths, until the weight of breathing reminds you, of my death. iv. when time works like the hands of a clock, turning in circles. this is the second time, that the heavens open up like a stream of sun across a meadow, speckled with small flowers. in god's fists, two leaves point to the zenith. i pluck a leaf and walk east, to where the sun rises. mis-taking the moon's light, you travel west. the earth shows stone bowls, flint arrows; all about, our ancestors are engaged in survival. living what will never be, again.