Sit. Cosmic metronome on the desk, which is to say it makes noise as it moves and turns to silence when it hits its edges, and it makes no noise. It has space when it moves, breathes nothingness when it stops. Click click click of nonexistence.
I'm held in a dreaming space, lower, slower consciousness. He's threading and rethreading my thoughts, reknit the tapestry. Here, I become open to this, there, I become open to that. My Astral draconic form lays lazily over a bed of distant-scented flowers, barely catching in the narrow nostrils. Fire, in one place, he has me in the depths of his woven reality we share now. In all places I am between sleep and waking.
New ideas, new perceptions. In this state I am malleable and I listen keenly. Here, hearing his murmuring voice deep as a planet's hum, repetitive cycles of internal reception. Breaking barriers, I'm to stay until they're broken.
We've spent so much time reknitting each other lately; I've spent most of my time reknitting him, lacing his energy and pulling it through my teeth to temper and tidy threads. I've been taking his innermost troubles and reworking, remoulding his energies and thought patterns, recoding his deepest habits and ways of seeing. Now it's my turn. I'm drifting in the tepid sea of all and no sensation...
