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Longing to culitvate the luminous numinous in my life,
I speak to the mute angels who populate dark matter,
invisible to me; I open my eyes as if underwater, against
the weight, against the sharp sting of salt, and peer
into a muddled kalidescope of colored lights and
incandescent shadows hoping to see the face of that
which gazes at me always yet remains unseen.

For, I suppose, my own good.

For will not the slightest glimpse spell doom
for my own synaptic dancing angels? Will
they not instantly fly home, like seeking like, leaving
me a massless particle of infinite volume, destroying me,
turning me into the limitless and featureless
thing I seek?

I dare not blink.