The drums agogo within my soul, dotting every ‘I’, knocking every ‘D’ down, laying em flat like Arabic symbols, languages rapping into my head, never a syntax, semantic to elude me. With the silky waves of the hand, the diaphanous cloth mitigating the power of the Word behind. Rising out the bed of the pad; traveling down the tube of the pen, a train of jolly children to tap-dance on the page, set up a fair of the vicar, meditating, proclaiming the creep, climb, intermix and dense forest of wisdom and beauty.