Mathematics.

Everything in life shares a numerical relationship.

The moon was beneath my feet, a rolling red carpet of time, myth, and dream work -- the perfect segue into a makeshift existence. Unworthy, I lamented: my life is a sequence of half-remembered dreams.

A fear lingers in my subconscious, as my thoughts blurred in retrograde motion against my coronary exhalations. I tipped my hat in particular to Alpha Draconis and he winked in acknowledgement.

Someone once said, “The creator holds the working of the spheres in his hands.” But what happens when the earth is scorched? You discover that the numbers six and seven committed suicide before Mother Earth’s children suckled her breasts. Nothing remains but the repetition of “nine” in the cosmic lullaby.

And then you ask yourself, “Do I only write to cross out the lines?”

Do the math. It’s written everywhere.