a MECCA without a god

Stuck my thumb in the honey-jar one more time . . . a question of deliciousness, life or sweetness, soothing the tart astringence of adversity . . . and, looking out the window notably: trees waving their leafy arms in adoring consolation to the day's circadia - the wind is my soul, free giorni di vento sono giorni di cambio floating , not troubled by the prison of aerodome, Earth's sky zone its invisible canopy and high-arching kingdom of screeching fantasy; angels and echoes .. . a question of soundlessness, voice that never fails to reach each tiny quarter, or in a corner of the world that has no expressive choice - its heart is lost, and found . . . and lost again. Staring at the wind, I realize I am breathless and, taken aback I follow it.