Night of fantastic fevers, of the body in rebellion, sensing the momentary truth of its’ nature, we are pilgrims in a night of curvatures, illusions, despair. Our own undoing drives us into a time of unraveling moods and mysteries. A time of secret confessions, of the confusions of song where there is no excuse for beauty, no definition of love, no hour, second, minute but the one in hand; that supple, flying undulation passing, passing till it is gone. Night of Myth, of spontaneous combustion's, muddy angels are we all. Caught in ungentle flight, trapped between the chalice and the serpent’s egg, heaped with now, blessed with sound, taste, gift of sight, endowed both emperors and clowns, we drift, more curved then straight, propelled by fire, ice, crazed intellect, small sinners suffering small martyrdom’s. As we drift, flesh of the apple dreaming from its tree is our tongue’s juice, pleasures of the body filled with soaring sighs are just as sweet. Far from sleep, near the parting of logic, I have heard in the bending tower of myself, secret sounds coming in from the sea. strange, new voices calling out, rising from the dark surf and falling rain. O Night of miraculous mysteries, of unraveling moods let me splash in the play of your sacred water. In my house of clouds, your notes rise as I recognize in you the anthem of the sun; the Mother of Light. I see into the beautiful surprise of your face as the Earth, a living creature, shakes itself awake. Scott Malby