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"touched"   

	He wasn’t there yesterday.  I know the landscape of my mind. Today He came, like music on the wind,  blown through an opening high upon the wall. Fragile crumb of everywhere, anywhere, somewhere, in my hand.  A letter sent from God. I read it eagerly with the hunger of a starving man.  This magic world, a grain of sand, a piece of earth, of sanity, of God. I held it in my palm and turned it over in my mind. Gesturing and reckoning with fascination to behold.  A new discovered treasure that illuminated space with its presence. Partner to my soul, sharing existence, reflecting life, speaking to me in newfound volumes of imagination. 
Caged for twenty years the mind screams for anything that changes its existence;  a rat, a fly, the tortured screams of lost souls. Could I induce the guard to spit upon my face today, perchance to recognize that I exist? Craving pain or the indignities of torture to bear witness to my life. And now, a morsel from God. Who else would mark such chance. A tiny window high above.  Too small, too far to reach; a magic mailbox through which was posted this small letter for me. This dust speck grain of precious earth remembered for its maker. All time is relative to experience.  Man lives by his imagination.  If you remove him from the means to measure both, you remove his existence.  It is the greatest single torture to be left alone. Madness is the mask that all the lonely wear. The only contact many know is fear and the greatest fear of all to be alone. But I am not alone.  This new-found friend and I share our existence. We tread the longest of roads, recounting each to each the marvelous journeys we have made. The sights and sounds and smells and touch of all we have envisioned. This friend imbued with personality and charm.  What others, saturated in the drunkenness of their excess would ignore, I embrace. This grain so lost and isolated from its whole, like me, craves touch. And I am here. I will touch. And we will not be alone. So many pieces make the puzzles of our lives. We move between them dangling; brushing up against them, stealing bits of embodiment, making them our own. We are not the owners of these lives.  We borrow them for just a moment, savor this distraction or another; large or small, great or grand. Then gone.  My brother, the grain will tell you so.  We have come to know each other’s story well.
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