I can sit,

upright or feet up,

with a cup filled,

reading words from another mind

so perfectly resonating

with my heart.

“Are these words not mine?”

Property has nothing to do with it.

And these words are not part of mind,

but rather hearts.

Belonging to those

who feel with flesh and bones,

and let another conscious work infect space.

That is where real work is done.

Not in offices,

but in wooden fields,

living rooms,

chairs of all kinds.

Little profit —

no product. Yet progress,

real progress is reached

in the simple act of opening.

Opening through words.



feeling what we all feel

with the brief act of presence

filling consciousness.


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