The night settled in and we filled the valley with our campfire smoke. It plumed out blue making the hillsides misty like we were somewhere far away in the bush, just me and Neil Young, his guitar and harp.
We are all just trying to get by, living off trash and whatever we can.
We are animated by a force that inhabits this shell, bound to it.
Sitting outside as the storm gathers, on the outer edge of it: thinking that all things have their edges good or bad, where they begin.
The stream of consciousness is real, our perception is sharpened by stillness. You can drink from it and feel refreshed.
They say the body is the outermost layer of the mind.
Like passing through the atmosphere and trying to see outside the plane, but it’s hard to make out anything below or know when we’re going to land.