On Sunday, after writing this, I strolled between the tombs of those who had long ago ceased looking for life. Around me were stone monuments designed to honor and, in some cases, perpetuate lives that had long ago withered, dried out and become brittle. Wandering among the dead — with their conceits so evident and raw — it is easier for me to find the stillness I seek.

Ironically, I was on my way to meet someone. A cemetery may be an odd locale for an assignation, but my intuition told me that it was right and I have long ago bowed down to my intuitions.

We met as if on a high and barren plain, two specks coming from great distances, preceded by long-shadows. We approached from two separate, desperate horizons. The wind was a dull cry and raised a chalk-like dust that covered everything with its pallid sigh.

Nothing else moved in that barren space. Any life had long ago slithered into the dust. We were the last two. Our advancing silhouettes vibrated electrically in the desert light.

The past had been smote; the future laid waste. For that exquisite moment that balanced on the point of a knife, we simply were. I looked into the other shadow’s eyes and they were veils upon veils that must be parted.

As I stood there gazing, life and death folded into one and I knew that the same force that embraced you and breathed action and thought into you would snuff you out – and all with that same imperturbable dispassion.

In that desert wind, which was now howling, the shadows separated by veils hesitated — and then began their long descent through the mysterious passage.

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