The Short Space Between Lightning and Thunder

Last night I was dazed under the stars and I was looking into oblivion or whatever was past the atmosphere and beyond the roof of earth. I was thinking what the fuck does chemistry and physics mean in relation to the shooting stars and crescent moon and I was glassy eyed and itching to talk maths and meaning and maybe even put the world to rights by unstacking all the pieces and making sense of it or something. So I took out a margined notebook and sat down with a pen and a coke and put some music on, and I just went with the rhythms and started thrashing out thoughts on the blankest of pages. What I wrote was a jigsaw of sights and dreams and images of future, past and present and I ripped up the pages and pieced them back together all layed out on the floor as a map or a painted picture. I followed the roads and coughed away the dust in my throat and as the sun poured down from the sky I felt whole and I baked in its glow and I started to melt and I was complete. It was like I could reach up and touch the boundaries of sound, and run my hands over the hot burning gas of the earth. Such was the night, that it opened my eyes, and I understood.