Purpose-made, our skull is the only place wherein
consciousness awakes, exercises, changes, knows, and rests. Round and hard like
the Earth it mimics, alone our skull is some special planet, though for some,
seen one seen them all. Oceanic fertility is our truth, every month’s January
when we wake from sleep, our senses returning to duty, renewed and amazed; our
skull, the vital carrier. Our dreams are oceanic, unconscious head drifting out
into depths of ancient existence. Day is wakeful relief from such soup. Tide
out, watchful behind two perfect sockets, we enjoy the littoral of everything
sun keeps alive.
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