("My head swam to see so many years below me, and yet within me, as if I were thousands of leagues in height." - Marcel Proust, "A la Recherche du Temps Perdu")
Simply this, suddenly this: sunshine shafting through the glass door at Tighnabruaich flaring into mozaic on the linoleum where an old laurel leaf stirs unaccountably between the shards of broken light.
En ce moment le temps est perdu.
The light, the leaf are happening in the distant years below me - above me uncapped psalms of time and space coalign where all the, all the will be was and all the then is - only to fly through, fly out to force fields isotropic.
Unhurriedly I am.
Vector among time's leaves I wake into a vision as centuries no longer lost breathlessly open up before me and through... .
Or is it one lamellar moment uncupped in me into luminous, deathless beginnings... ?
On cherche toujours.