Shadow departs. Shadow stays. Like a dark snowball, a bear with no curves, like choked fire. The shadow remains, like a strangled roar, its hunger for more. More. More. More.

Light, born billions of years ago. Light, born just now. These tiny dots of the past, several light-years away in space and time. Some died long ago. Who knows? The Sun died 8 minutes ago. Who knows? Their light, still drifting through the cosmic clouds.

"You are special," they say. I feel special. "You have diverse neurons," they say. I feel vibrant. "You are on the spectrum," they say. I feel colorful. "You have autism," they say. I feel awesome. Like Mr. Albert Einstein, my roots are up in the air, my branches in the ground, and that's awesome in this boring world.

Like a tiny dot of mould, like a single snail in the rains on a porch. Things that enter in all peace and calm spread like an underground metro network, like the roots of a jungle. Things like Regret and Anger and Cancer. All those things must have a proverb.

His hair were wet, his hands were cold, his heart was warm. Smoke travels through his lungs to settle in his burning heart. The warmth there, the pressure on it. He is hoping to turn the soot to Coal

What worth is blood, If it knows not to run hot? Asked the old man in me, “What worth is blood, If it runs cold in nerves? If it cannot swell to serve?” He turned 23 , to be hanged again. One last time, he asked, “What worth is blood, If it is to crystallise? I refuse to obey. I refuse to suffice.”

The intuition of indigo becomes so intense that the line between the black vanishes. the power of light doesn’t make it bright only dense. The light is Where Indigo meets Black.

Layers and layers of me, revealing Layers and layers of me. It never bottoms out, the layers go on and on and what remains is, several layers of me. The unfolding is not an event, the Unfolding is a Process.