Clave

The Goldfinch is no dream. You spotted in the day under the glimmer of a falling sun. It was a sweet burst of citrine hope; something not permitted to the Onani. Keep moving as if you did not behold the sign. Nobody will understand the visitation anyway. I caution against any diary entry. Leave no evidence of troubled waters. Every ship must be accountable for its own decisions. This stranger of nimble flight does not make mistakes. It was on assignment to pierce your layers of armored sensuality. It worked, or esle my words would appear as drivel. Yet this must die in your bossom. Do not converse with commoners about the peculiar angel that dislodged your spirit. They are only good for bending your ear about trivialities that sprout from our shared soil. It is not enough that they debase timely omens with statistical chatter. These taxidermists have colonized sacred space. They have stopped up trumpet blasting with periodicals. Happenstance has become a twenty-one point score in the Scrabble of profane minds. Nature does speak, so you must listen. It does encrypt spectacle with meaning. So you must strain your eyes to see. Comb through nagging premonitions that tunnel all the way to subterranean strength. Learn the grammar of screaming hawks that will mute chief princes. Cup your hands over the lit candle entrusted to you. There is a consortium of interests that wish to blow it out like a stolen birthday wish. Life is burdened with secrets. A weary vault is flirting with you using the numbers to her combination. It discloses them out of confidential fatigue. If you possess anything approaching wisdom, become pain relief to the ache of a confessing earth.