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Worshipping Lali

Seismic shiftings, troubled surfaces

I am increasingly convinced that we are dwelling in those solemn moments in between the earth’s heartbeats – in those moments when everything is preternaturally still and silently foreboding; in those moments when our skies seem to have no linings, and the merchants of the ‘normal’ continue to drink to their endless profiteering. However, the corn ears in our tired fields are not alert for no reason; the clouds are agitated. Something is stirring to life. The ground is trembling. The birds have taken flight. The seafloors are breaking apart. And the soft moan of mysterious music weaves through the air – re-enchanting our sense of wonder. The earth is about to breathe again; another long-awaited heartbeat will reverberate from the heart of things, pry our societies open, and disturb our cherished essences. We will hear the pollination songs of lore, and will be the same no more.

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Falling might very well be flying – without the tyranny of coordinates.