of intervals, a pause so small as to go unregistered by any instrument of time, so evanescent it slips through the hands of history, the yearning appears. Not a yearning for anything that can be owned, eaten, touched, or even named; not a hunger that can be sated by any act of consumption or communion, no matter how desperate or tender the attempt. Instead, it is the yearning for a perfection, so absolute, that the only fitting word for it is silence. A radical silence of a depth and clarity that will scour every stray thought and residual impulse from the mind, leaving only innocence…

© KD.W.Heim