‘The procedure is simple’ whispered the drowsy doc; ‘it’s all about math – subtract the light, add the darkness, multiply by the jiffs of ebbing silence between heart thrums and we’re done’. A work of exemplary finesse, I keep telling myself.

Where not for this journeyman barber, I, perchance, would have been stuck wandering the fine, chalk-white (out) line between clarity and personal vanity.

I welcome the eyeless gaze, the subtle hint of the limelight hovering above my temples like a mesmerized firefly swarm, drawing ever closer to a consciously dampened inner fire.

‘Surgery is over’ whispered again the sullen doc with the lazy eye; leap off the table and walk. One foot in front of the other foot, mind the head, duck your senses, leave your glasses on the nightstand, and let yourself ‘unfeel’.

I welcomed myself anon, tiptoeing over the threshold of a home reft of angels, cleft from scope, and treble clefted in its opus dirge.

La lune ne garde aucunu rancune…la lune danse…spinning as an ODed dervish, a hypnogogic volta devoid of sense(s), meaning, rippling through the incessant kapows of a half-demented pendulum.