Night fails to provide disguise, half-drenched in moonlit showers. Pursuing the one good eye, guided by opalescent rays reflected in the diaphanous bowl of immanence.
He ventures a thought:
What is the hidden difference between a flow and a step, a stream carrying a hapless leaf, and frantic feet leaping through winds? One cannot step in the same river twice, they claim, still, the one same river remains as such, countlessly so, if only in the nominal stillness of the word.
And one step too far will have the poor soul swallowed.
As the rivers branch off in murky folds of watery pathways, perhaps they again reunite in the one - a holed basin.
And the poor soul is milled through the centre, sheer excrement in a numinous vase, and on the other side, bursts forth as a fountain – a mushrooming plume of vaporous leaves.Facts become translucid, mere phantoms.