Outside my abode of a sidereal space, it was on a song that clobbered my chest a feeling abstract.
Oh mater, oh my creator in disguise, must one's world but mine know you by this time.
Ponder I. Alas! Ponder I and ponder I a little further. Hath I thought of it for quite some time, and surmises my heart to share. Art thee all ears? Please be.

Sang the voice of an eventide, and was I living one.
Sang the voice of a blue sky, and had I atop my head a cerulean nimbus was that ceding with the cerise of a sunset.
And on and on did the voice sing - sun, stars, moon, day and night were all his muses. What is in his mind? Can thee tell?
Sang the voice a dirge of a soul - invisible scars had rendered him baffled, yet was the ache there, right there, under his skin on his hands, neck, ankles, forehead, lips and face to inflict. And he sang of an empty hour on the sky - a firmament of my fancy.
Sang he of the contrition and guilt of a relinquishment could he now never undo.
Tell me now. Can you?

'Tis a splash of an image and I am in the room again. You, you my mother art just close to the primus of the house.
And now I speak with nails bursting open my fingertips, and art thee in the midst of the pantry.
Now I step - one, two, one back.
Now move my feet forward - one, two, one back.
Alas! how long must I walk forth to come back?
I see thy...