It all starts again. Thrust from the night's rest into the sun, to mountain forests on meandering paths, it all starts again.
old and wooden,
with bell and dragon inhabitants.
Though hardly a thing of the past,
it now matures with cigarette butts and lights.
Yin and yang exist eternally.
Rice field seas isolate human buildings and gardens,
as islands to be visited by a monkey's hungry curiousity.Important things are transported along tracks with shacks.
But there is nothing here save what's already been done.
Past the signs that read "wild boar warning" is where magic still stirs.
Both ancient and fresh,
this is not just a picture, an image, or a forest.
This is life in all it's complex intricacies.
Anger, fear, happiness, and computers.
And also is this; sex, fame, the war in Iraq, your great grandchild.This is the end of a road.
Sporadically, images of self appear all alone.
I've searched for hours pushing a bike in the sun,
looking for something without a name,
without a past that has been tainted by the writings of man.
Perhaps it takes a small pond of mosquitoes on a medium sized mountain ... nope, it was made by man.
Perhaps it's hell...
Perhaps the picture just won't come out right.
Already again this day ends.
What of everything, but nothing at all ...
there must be something.