Maestro

outside the festival gates, i laid and you sat. The stars hung above it all, silver suns on a string. the wind reached even them, leading them nearly to a slow dance in the sky. close eyes, lean back, look up, open eyes. open eyes. breathe. "Do you think other people exist somewhere way out there?" "maybe. but i don't think we're ever intended to know them." your words fed life into the night, they covered me from the cold thoughts of mind and body. how odd that all else seemed so small compared to us right there, the lights, people, cars, sounds, town, fried food, it was of an entirely seperate place. a place of of much significance to its inhabitants, but little to the thoughts that inhabited us.
perhaps the stars were listening, or maybe that grass had been up late waiting. but something about it seemed almost destined. an unscripted arrangement by God himself, him and her and there and then. or maybe we somehow overcame the passing minutes and lost keys and maybe we stumbled right into place, all unintentionally intended of course. transpersonally, instantaneously, gracefully, we stumbled to that ground and the words flowed from within us, we are fountains. we are sky. two heads and one planet, waiting to stay. and wondering vastly beyond the attainable and further reaching into that infintie abyss of the possible and the doubtful, and mastering the art of blending the two. fountains we are.