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THE CUTTING EDGE

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The Paper, now separated from itself, the visions behind the halves move far away, the words for thoughts vanish like the thoughts themselves, and unsupported, the thin textures fall into the ink of being, and crumbled, become a black, fibrous mass of what may have been. The edge has severed two likenesses from one, and nothing remains of either but this clumping memory.                                  Dust to Dusk by Sampson-Carroll
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. . . . .GIOTTO'S COLLAR

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WHAT DO 'REGULAR' FOLK DREAM OF?

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  I dreamt, last night, that I was in an incense-smoke filled room....filled with 'burners' with bronze dragons atop them....From childhood 'fairy tails' about fire-breathing dragons, I suppose, these images inundated my dreamscape....Awakening, I left my bed, half-sleeping, and decided to floss my teeth to remove a chunk of black walnut that was wedged in the open space, between a pair of back molars, awaiting a dental implant, and ventured by the light of the moon through a window, falling over a rolled-up oriental rug, stumbling into the harpsichord, from which fell a heavy Chinese censer with a dragon atop its lid.....some kind of synchronicity, happenstance and coincidence conjured abstract considerations of Cosmic forces at play with my imagination....then, turning a lamp 'on'....the room was just a room, with blue, powered incense spilling onto the sound board.....Sneezing from having inhaled some of the blue crystalline powder, I glanced at the carved...
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