Galaxies, constellations, solar systems, stars, and planets go round and round and round in their gravitational grooves. Days are born to die, to dawn, to die, to dawn, time and time, again and again.

Yang 陽: Tribalism is brain stem stuff: Tar Heel, Blue Devil, Tyger, Tyger[1] A twig snaps; adrenalin pumps. My Territory. My Toy. My Girl.[2]   My Generation.[3] Godzilla demands that parking space. Brainstem stuff.

Life yearns to be. The lowly weed cracks through concrete in the dying strip shopping center off Folly Road. That weed feeds on the CO₂ of the homeless man who instinctively dodges it with his shopping cart. Yin 陰

Ayahuasca Shaman by Paul Heussenstamm

A millennium from now, in the Amazon, ringed round a fire, Sons of the Wind tell of a time when the jungle was dying and silver birds were flying overhead buzzing with water rising and the white ghosts sighing into tiny blinking talk boxes but how Tucano chased them away with the sun itself . . .

Again and again, time and time, dawn to die, gravitational grooves, round and round, planets and stars and solar systems and galaxies.

[1] Burning bright in the darkness of the night . . .

[2] Talking ‘bout my girl, my girl.

[3] P-p-p-people try to put us down.