Solitude standing soporific, somnambulent under the sun, still attempting a soma soliloquy from the soul. Judged solely on form, too many names removed from identity, whatever is said is said in relative silence: secrets only sediment and stone can show, shared only with those who parse epochs, translate time, as a matter of magic and a matter of course.
In the rhyolite and sandstone, I the glass and pre-glass, the structured and beautiful, in the mess of ill-refined, the story runs from chaos to crystal in the fashion of an era upon an age upon lifetimes and halflives, whence cometh the tongue of potassium-argon and its atomic heart. Sensuous and glowing, knowing things are worth knowing, reading in the decay the glory of former days and the fashion in which all life under these former oceans once rushed about.
Within the sifting loam lie the energies of millennia. Seek the sleeping sandstone soul under the clay, within the quickmud of the day to day. When the plates shift, all will be moved, and only those who remember will understand why.
