01 October 2017 12:00 AM

Writing while mediating is called, at the best of times, automatic writing, you let yourself go, and let the worlds come, the flash of light that comes from the wardrobe being open, there's a mirror on the door, which caught the light emanating from the window, white curtains, almost lace, I like this wardrobe, high neck collars, and purple boots, she had feet there were SO MUCH smaller than mine, and my feet are fairly small, my great grandmother Ida, a painter who studied in France, if your carriage boots are purple velvet with dark fur lining, are you rich, don't know, she was married to a minister and they didn't have money, odd that my grandmother didn't go to school, I just learned that, she taught herself, I DID NOT KNOW that she was a remarkable woman, part of a literary crowd, my ancestors, figures, anyway, that wardrobe, I want to dig deeper into the pantaloons, dark trousers, that were voluminous, white billowy shirts, and a dark ascot, was this man dark as well, hair black with a beard that ended in a sharp point, yeah, eyes to dive into, his belt was wide, and tight fling the sword up, and strike it down, oh that's me interfering with the input, someone outside is being noisy and interfering with my meditation, people are parasites, without even being away of it, they feed off what's available, protect us from evil, protect us from our enemies, keep us safe, in perfect love and perfect trust so mote it be.