stir your bones

Ride Mystery every morning. The joy of dirt, red mud, dust. Explore terrain. Essential.

Remember the future.

Today is a burning body in cement block. Orange and yellow and blue.

She made 70. The wat zone, solemn nephew. She had a long life.

Many crypts. Tall trees, heat, fire, add more logs...rising waves of amok below pillars.

Stir bones.

Pedal on in silence. Know the end.

Discover a village inside a village.

Market women find onions, veggies, conversations. I take java. Ice. Shaded trees whisper. Raksa is 14, in the 6th. We bike together on Sunday.

Connections sit in shadows as her sister and mother wash dishes, doing kind and gentle English.

Market zone is a precise poem. The golden thread.

Plasma IV walks down the street with an old man.

Cold

Logical

Detached