At precisely midnight... nothing happened.
A bird flew, and a mystic landed.
His heart lay guarded, but piercingly curious.
He had eaten through the Aghori’s wounds, only to find his own humble nature.
I sang him a song... and he listened with a kind man’s ears.
He was very experienced, but not genius.
He was very talented and skilled, but not quite as divine as what he smoked, drank or painted.
I gave him space and he returned into the shadow to mourn a true love remembered.
He had understood love correctly, but not death. In death, his mother father and master remained... but for some odd reason, not his wife and children. Perhaps for him, they were immortal. Perhaps for him, they would always be alive.
One man waited for death, and another man defeated death.... by a song.
I waited, and nothing happened.
I waited more, and nothing happened.
I waited for five years while nothing happened.
And so it woke up... and nothing began to happen.
And as it began, it consumed all time and all space within its perfection.