The city so quiet. Earlier, I heard a freight truck carrying supplies from Lyttelton, now nothing. A cash-buzz junky detox programme.
We are in danger but by that we are relieved. There is no expectation other than to be alone. To be still. Outside, birds question away like younger brothers and sisters, but cannot quite distract us from the silence of the shouldering hills. Nothing moves. No wind speaks.
Could I command some genie to grant us any wish, I would not settle for happiness. I would not deliver us bliss. It would not be understanding, or the end of anything.
I cannot, but it would be this, just this: all passion, all art, all beauty, all love, all duty; eternally a reverant mind welcoming insemination by each desirous moment.
